Por Orto Lado

I had never walked across a border before. In the past it had always been in some form of vehicle: bus, train, car, cruise ship. After receiving my exit stamp from Costa Rica I walked through no man’s land, the space between border. The void that should be empty, but was bustling with traffic, horns, stench. Was this where people came when they had nowhere else to go? That’s what it felt like, the slum that filled the space between identities. Neither Panama or Costa Rica…nothing.

Perhaps it looked different during the day, but at night it felt like walking through a world where daylight was a myth.

Panama City was different. It was full of light and life. Despite our exhaustion, Nora and I walked several miles along a green belt from out hotel to Old Town. It was a lovely day, though too hot for my tastes.

The tide was out, leaving the fishing boats and expensive yachts sitting in several inches of mud. Meanwhile any vessel at sea was forced to wait out the low tide.

We watched marathoners zoom past us and eventually happened upon the finish line. A group of people in matching turquoise shirts stretched off to the right. Behind them a low wall separated the path from the slope leading down to the sea. Cats lounged lazily in the sun, one of them even dared to lay on the road itself.

Old Town was pretty, a mixture of traditional building and construction. There was meant to be a free walking tour but they never showed up, so after a quick bite we did our own little jaunt through the deserted streets.

Drums and trumpets shattered the serene silence of Sunday. An assembly of people pushing religious floats and popping streamers walked all around the center of Old Town and ended up at one of the many churches. I don’t really know what they were celebrating or commemorating but they gave off a somber sort of Mardi Gras vibe.

Other than that we didn’t do much in the city over the next two days. I needed to replace a prescription that had been stolen with my pack and Nora had some shopping to do. We moved to a hostel closer to the jogging path. It was reminiscent of the house in Disney’s UP: a cute little family home amidst a sea of highrises.

Construction was happening on almost every front. The owner unhappily admitted that eventually he might be forced to move. After one of the crews ripped a hole in the metal roof shading the courtyard, I relocated to the indoor seating area.

Without much time to explore the canal, we opted to do a flyby viewing and take the train from Panama City to Colon. It was a fourth-five minute journey that passed through jungle and marshland. I couldn’t see any of the locks along the canal but there were several points where we could see just how wide it was. The cargo ships looked at home instead of ostentatious.

At some point we transitioned. I’m not quite sure when it happened but while we were on that train we moved from the luxurious Panama to the crumbling. Rain darkened the sky and flashes of lighting shone out behind the army of vultures perch along the endless mounds of garbage. There had to be close to a thousand birds in that graveyard of discarded belongings and waste.

In my years of travel I’ve been to a few sketchy places, though none of them could hold a candle to Colon. Perhaps my fears were heightened due to the robbery. Whatever it was, I wanted to get out of that city as soon as possible.

After taking a taxi through the flooded roads we hopped onto a chicken bus and headed for Portobelo. A chicken bus is basically an old school bus that is decked out with stickers, multi-colored lights, huge speakers, and crazy paintings. They are super cheap forms of local transport.

We made it to Portobelo without incident. Our hostel was a shadow of its former glory but it would have to suffice. The town itself seemed to be drying up. There were spurts of life here and there, mainly due to the school kids.

A French-Italian who had been living in Panama for over thirteen years sat at the nicest cafe in town. He drank slowly, smoked when it suited him, and had a lot to say if you were quiet enough to listen. According to him Panamanians were very lazy. Rather than work the land they had, they would let it sit untouched and spend way too much money on imported goods that they could easily grow themselves. He told us of how in his “retirement” he grows his own fruit, makes marmalade, has a small boat that he uses to catch his own fish and lobsters, has a extensive garden of exotic plants, and has been toying with the idea of making his own coffee.

As darkness claimed the town of Portobelo, he informed us that walking back to our hostel was too dangerous and insisted on driving us. We waved farewell and settled in for our last night on land.