August 11, 2023, Panama. I slept only two or three hours. I told Einy I thought I should stay, but she seemed perplexed and gave me the impression she thought I should leave. So, I packed, ate some breakfast she made, and waited for the taxi with Gabriel’s and Einy’s mothers. They both blessed me with prayers for protection from God, the saints, and angels, and asked when I’d return. I said I didn’t know. I felt pressured and confused.

When the taxi arrived, he gave us a tour of the town because he dropped off other passengers out of the way. He charged two dollars, which seemed steep, but at least he helped me flag down the bus to Penonomé—a much more direct route to Santiago than the bus down the hill to Las Uvas. The bus only ran every hour and a half, so I was lucky with the timing. On the way, we hit a huge traffic jam.

I enjoyed the route, which was greener and wilder than expected. I got off in Penonomé on the Pan-American Highway and waited for the big bus to Santiago. There was a detour through the countryside that doubled the travel time. Along the way, several men got off to pee in the bushes. I asked the driver if I could stop too, but he said I’d have to wait until the bus depot. After 45 minutes, the bus stopped, and I quickly got off to relieve myself where no one could see me. When I got back on, I heard some women snickering, but I didn’t care—I was relieved.

The journey from El Valle took seven hours—much longer than the three hours or less by car. At the terminal in Santiago, I struggled with my two bags, backpack, and daypack to catch the bus to Santa Fe. One bag strap broke, and I worried about my umbrella and other items. I didn’t know if anything was missing until we arrived two hours later. The bus was very crowded since it was 3 p.m., when most students get out of school. People ended up standing in the aisle almost the entire way. I felt crammed, my shoulders knocking the person next to me and the guy standing in the aisle. I felt a bit guilty but didn’t want to be squished for two hours after such a long trip.

When we arrived around 5 p.m., I jumped out and tried to get oriented. I had no idea where I was or where to find a place to stay. I asked a local sitting on the steps of a town marker if there was a fire station nearby. I was hoping to camp on their grounds like in El Valle, but she didn’t think that was possible. I heard people singing in the church and thought, “Oh, we’re in a small town.”

I saw a couple with some equipment and asked if they were biologists. They said yes—they were from the University of Panama and had come to collect plants for a few days. I followed them to the hospital where they were staying and asked if there was any room for me. The receptionist said no, unless they wanted to share their rooms. They looked at me sheepishly, and I didn’t press the matter. I asked if I could get Wi-Fi to research places to stay, and was told to check Hostal Bulaba down the road.

At Hostal Bulaba, I met Viktor, who runs the place. First, I met his partner and asked if anyone else was staying in the dormitory. She seemed confused by my question and didn’t answer. When I said I was 60, had trouble sleeping, and preferred not to share a room, she assured me that if anyone else came, they’d be placed in another room. Viktor showed me around, and I liked the hostel. They had a large kitchen, a nice backyard hangout area, and while the beds weren’t super comfortable, they were adequate for my needs—and affordable: $12 a night instead of the usual $15.

I paid for three nights, then decided to walk around for an hour. Viktor raised his eyebrows, but I explained I’d been on a bus for seven hours and needed to stretch my legs. I headed down to the river via the cooperative and met a nice couple on my way back. They asked about the cost of medical care and cataract surgery in America. I explained Medicare but mentioned it’s difficult or impossible for non-U.S. citizens to access.

That night, I wasn’t sure if I’d use the fan. I turned it on low, but it was very loud, so I tried sleeping without it. There were holes in the walls that allowed airflow, and I propped the door open to maximize ventilation. I chose a top bunk—which was hard to climb up and down but had the best airflow. It was a bit of a challenge, and I had to get up to pee in the middle of the night, but all things considered, I slept well. I was exhausted after little sleep the night before and ended up sleeping around 11 hours.

August 12. It rained the night before, and I found the sound of rain on the tin roof peaceful. I woke late, around 10 or 10:30, and asked Viktor to alert María and Chon that I’d be walking to their organic coffee farm. I shopped for food, and when I returned, Viktor urged me to hurry because of the weather and the possibility I wouldn’t get a mountain view. Finding the farm was difficult—the directions were poor—but locals helped me along the way.

I really liked Chon, an older man who grew up nearby and bought the land with 11 other families in the mid-1970s. He said locals earned 50 cents a day working eight hours back then and that owning land to grow your own food was far better. He showed me their orchids, vegetable garden, and coffee plants. He was very kind. When I asked how to encourage people to live differently regarding their relationship with the land, he said it was very difficult since most people cut down trees, including the other 11 families with adjacent plots. In contrast, he and his wife had planted many trees and bushes, making their plot extremely fertile.

While there, I met Lizzie, a Kiwi running a horseback riding service. She previously had a business in Bocas del Toro. She was doing a day trip with a family from Bodensee in southern Germany near Austria. The mother was very nice, and we had a pleasant conversation. I also liked María, Chon’s wife, who gave me a simple explanation of how coffee is made—much simpler than the complex coffee tour I’d experienced in Bocas.

Lizzie told me I could walk back a different way to see more birds. I left the farm and noticed most other families had cleared their land. A man in a pickup truck threw a map on the ground showing the trail I should take to reach the river. I headed up a very steep hill, and at the top, just as I started down, I came to a crossing and took a right turn. I hoped this was the right path and stopped to ask a girl outside on her patio. She confirmed it.

I walked steeply downhill until I reached a quebrada where the bridge was out. I walked upstream quite a ways until I found a place to cross. From there, I headed to the hanging bridge over the main river. The first property on the right was an Africanized bee farm. I wondered about safety since the bees are supposed to be quite aggressive. Halfway up the hill, I spotted two men climbing over a fence. Further up, I saw a lovely organic-looking garden and a large, beautifully tended property. At the top of the hill was the fairgrounds and the house where Héctor—the priest who was disappeared in the 1970s—had stayed the night before he was taken. Apparently, he was a guerrilla from Colombia, and the U.S. didn’t like him. I’m not surprised; they’ve killed many freedom fighters over the years.

Then I met Malva, who now lives in Pennsylvania but grew up in Santa Fe. She was staying with her mother to help out since her father passed away in June. He was 97 and healthy, but after being admitted to the hospital, he contracted sepsis and died within three days. Malva was very upset; he had gone in well but died so quickly. She was kind, and we had a nice chat outside her house. She was burning a log infested with termites, and I struggled to breathe through the smoke. I asked if I could stop by the next day, and she said yes.

I’d been feeling quite lonely here, not knowing anyone, but after meeting Malva, I felt more connected and included in the community. On the way back to the hostel, I stopped at a Herbolarium where Claudia gave me some bread baked in their pizza oven the night before and invited me to come back for coffee the next day. She said she had a French press and a way to whip milk—I was excited to try it.

I walked past the vivero and spotted the German family I’d met at the organic coffee farm the day before. I helped them buy some produce and recommended a restaurant up the hill. I sat with them until the food arrived and had a lovely conversation with the woman. In the end, I gave her my contact info in case they ever came to the Bay Area. She said she liked Americans a lot and had great vacations there, finding Americans much nicer than Germans, who could be quite dour. I stayed with them about 45 minutes before excusing myself—I really wanted to go for a walk before dark. They had planned two days for each place they were visiting, including Bocas del Toro, Santa Fe, Santa Catalina, and Isla Taboga near Panama City.

Still feeling energetic, I walked up the hill past Altra Piedra toward El Guabal. I loved getting out of town and having a view of the valley below. I walked until around 6:45, then stopped by Malva’s house. I met her mom, who was very funny and asked how much I was paying at the hostel. She said it was only $10 there and shared that she had hosted Japanese exchange students for two years, who were very respectful. Apparently, her sister had done an exchange program in Japan and spoke several languages. Her sister arrived with her son, and her mom cooked corn cakes and eggs for us. On TV, we watched a singing competition featuring young women with themes from La Máscara. I was tempted by the offer to stay at her place for $10 per night and took a look at her rooms. They weren’t as nice as where I was staying—I had access to all the hostel’s facilities—so I decided not to switch. Around 9:30, I excused myself and headed to bed.

August 13. I wanted coffee, so at 10:20 I headed back to the Herbolarium and had a wonderful time talking with Claudia for hours. We shared coffee, and she told me about her life in Medellín, Colombia, how she met Hendrik, and the complications with his ex-wife. They left Colombia partly to escape false accusations and legal troubles caused by the ex-wife. They’d had a café and pizza place in Bocas del Toro for four or five years but moved here four months ago, tired of the high business costs, noise, crowding, lack of nature, and the pressure from expats.

I excused myself briefly to visit the Sunday market, where I bought a few small bananas, a loaf of bread, and some pastries. I wandered into the crafts and artisanal building and admired some hats—I might go back for one.

I ate a sandwich of freshly baked bread with vegetables and pork. It was tasty, though not my usual fare. At 3 PM, Malva came with her sister, and we headed up to her finca on the edge of the national park. It’s a beautiful property, and I walked with her in my flip-flops through the mud up steep hills until we reached her parcel of land where she’s building a house and growing various plants, including tomatoes and other vegetables. She’s trying to find natural ways to protect her plants from being eaten. I suggested planting rosemary, garlic, and other vermifuge herbs.

Her father has owned this land since the 1940s and was originally told building would be allowed. When the government changed, however, that was no longer the case. Her father was close to Trujillo, a general whom the US wanted to replace with Noriega. After US interference, he faced various difficulties due to his political leanings. He was a kind man who always brought tools and necessities to help people feed themselves. He was an agronomist, as is Malva’s sister, who works for the Ministry of Agriculture in Panama.

We headed back to their house, where I spent a few minutes before wishing them a good trip to Panama City to pick up Malva’s son from the airport. Her sister wanted to get to Santiago in time for church that evening. I was reminded how everything here is a family affair—Malva, her sister, and her mom were all going to Santiago to pick up her son. Given that they’d be driving from 1 AM until 6 AM, that’s dedication.

I decided to go for a walk and headed down the hill next to the cooperative, walking past the river and the national park sign. It was starting to get dark, and I thought it wasn’t safe to keep going—especially since there were some pretty aggressive dogs on the road. As I walked back, a young colt ran toward me, and I scrambled up the hill, worried it might collide with me. I videotaped it as it slowed to a walk, froze, looked at me like I was a wolf, then slowly passed by, heading down to a stone wall dead end. It ran into a cow, which it chased off the road. I wasn’t sure which animal was more dangerous, so I kept a safe distance from both. Luckily, nothing else happened.

I ran into the couple I’d met the first night here at the bottom of the hill by the river. They were looking for a particular plant that grows by the side of the road.

I walked back to the Herbolarium and said hi to Claudia, telling her I needed to take a shower. I planned to come back, but got caught up writing my blog—and then it started raining hard, so I didn’t feel like getting wet.

August 14. I’d planned to catch the 10 AM bus, but roosters woke me early and I couldn’t get back to sleep. At 8, I grabbed my things, tried to find the hostel caretakers to pay them, and ran for the 8:30 bus to Calovébora on the Caribbean coast. It’s only 21 miles one way but took five hours round trip by bus.

I loved the Caribbean. We arrived at 10:30 after sitting next to some larger people and crossing a river on foot. I met Vlaudiw and Heniek, who showed me around their rooms. On the way back, I rode with Andres Perez, who led the bus. The bus arrived at 3:30; we got back at 6:30, after a one-hour wait in El Guabal. I walked down to the river and back, and when I returned it was almost dusk. Then I visited Malva.

August 15. I wanted to have an easy day. Claudia and I went out for coffee, but I couldn’t even afford to pay after spending $15 on a coffee, bougainvillea tea, and a sandwich. Talk about expensive! While we sat, we watched Viktor from Hostal Bulaba chatting with a woman organizing a major international ultramarathon in November. Claudia told me more about her family’s life in Colombia—one grandfather came from Italy, the other from Spain.

Life feels cheap here—except for when it doesn’t. Like a sloth crawling across the road while hummingbird buses barrel toward it without slowing for dogs, let alone anything else.

I chatted with Viktor a bit later. I had a noon counseling appointment, but the signal at Claudia’s place was too weak, so I went back to the hostel. In the session, we talked about loneliness and my shock at how people live here. I also spoke to Shawn for half an hour—he was at a cottage in South Carolina.

Later, I wandered past Maria y Chon looking for birds. I saw a sign with a toucan and ended up meeting a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses from Panama City. They gave me a pamphlet titled Do You Want to Live Forever? They were only in town for a week.

I kept walking, supposedly toward birds, but ended up stopping at the finca to buy coffee and maybe say hi to the couple who run it. They were busy with three Spanish women, and I felt like a third wheel. I went inside anyway and listened in, but felt invisible—Chan was over the moon about the visitors and barely noticed me.

Eventually, I asked for a ride back to town. I needed food. I stopped by to see Malva, who’d just returned from her land. I spoke with her son Leon for a while—he was kind, told me about his marathon-running hobby with his mom, and the things he used to love doing in Santa Fe. He mentioned he might invite a friend to visit. He’s staying for three weeks.

Malva, as usual, was distracted. I wished them a good night and told them I’d be leaving the next day. I felt sad—I’d just started connecting with them, with Claudia, and with Viktor. It all felt rushed.

Later, I went to see Viktor. I wasn’t sure he was home, so I called out at the gate. He came out holding binoculars—he was about to go to the river to look for solitary bees. I hadn’t seen his message and didn’t realize he’d reached out.

We talked about his projects and his life. He ended up giving me a tour—he showed me the composting toilet, the coffee plants, the fish farm, the cohousing setup, the garden, and his cat, Pepita, who had caught her first mouse and was endlessly chasing it. He thought she was playing; I thought she might just be confused.

Talking with him felt easy, like meeting a kindred spirit. He told me stories about living with the Naso people, how they thought he was one of them, and how he learned enough of their language to ask for food and shelter. He talked about guiding birding trips, seeing migratory birds in the Caribbean, spotting a jaguar, placing camera traps for the Jaguar Project, and the sad ignorance surrounding deforestation here.

He met Bianka through Instagram. He’s spent years volunteering and trying to make things better. I wished I could stay longer. He said I could camp behind their house. I was tempted, but I was just too tired—woken every morning and night—I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to get out of Dodge.

Before I left, he offered me a pineapple. I ate it that night. It was the sweetest one I’ve ever had.