Panama

Special to ISLANDS magazine

The men--lots of them--were milling around us without apparent purpose. For a brief moment I thought it might be me that was the attraction. I stroked back my stringy hair, wiped the perspiration from my upper lip and tossed out a few shy smiles. Nope, wasn't me.

"Come meet Justine," said Geoff Ragatz, strolling over to us. Geoff was the Southern Californian photographer accompanying us on this trip to Panama's two sides--the Pacific and the Caribbean coasts. Geoff had been to Panama before. He was an old Central America hand. He even had friends here, and a week before we were scheduled to leave he'd called to say he was bringing someone. A girl. That was all he'd say. I was traveling with my husband and two daughters--age seven and five--so it had seemed like good symmetry.

We elbowed our way through the crowd of men and stopped in front of what was one of the most beautiful women I had ever laid eyes on--clearly the impetus for all the milling. She was Panamanian but spoke flawless English. "Hello, I'm Justine Pasek," she said, extending a tapered hand, "Delighted to meet you."

She was angular and sloe-eyed with luminous cappuccino skin. Her cheekbones were high, her neck long, her shoulders thin. She sat with a trained oblivion, ignoring the legions of men vying for her attention. We were in the Albrook Airport, Panama City's domestic terminal, awaiting the private plane to fly us to Islas Secas island resort off the southwestern coast of Panama, on the Pacific side.

Panama is one of the thinnest countries in the world, merely 50 miles wide in some spots. It also lies crookedly, like a snake, from west to east, the thread that hitches America's two halves. It is also one of the world's rare places where, in a matter of hours, you can go from the wild, untamed nature of the Pacific coast to the laid-back, Afro-Caribbean influence of the Caribbean.

There are tropical island chains off both sides: Best known on the Pacific side are Las Perlas directly off Panama City, and now Islas Secas near the Costa Rican border. On the Caribbean side there is Bocas del Toro and the San Blas islands. We had chosen to go the resort on Islas Secas because it is brand new, and to the Bocas del Toro archipelago because it offers more accommodation than the indigenous Indian territory of San Blas. Our trip had been planned through Panama Travel Experts, a Californian-Panamanian operation that live up to their name. Their local guides are all degreed naturalists, and they know what American travelers want.

Justine was accompanying us to Islas Secas for four days so I set about prying her life story from her. She was, I determined quite quickly, not only gorgeous but also bright, composed and humble. She was twenty-five, she grew up in Panama City's American-run Canal Zone (hence the flawless English) and had worked as a model until...well...in 2002 she had been crowned Miss Universe. For the first time I felt gratitude for the nonchalance that being over forty gives a woman. I was going to spend five bikini-wearing days on an island with Miss freakishly perfect Universe.

Justine had traveled broadly in Panama but she had never been to Islas Secas. Not surprising as there was little there until December 2004 when the high-end eco-resort opened. Owned by Michael Klein, a young Internet millionaire from Santa Barbara, California, the resort has six casitas, spread out on ten acres of the largest island for maximum privacy.

When Klein bought the 16 islands in the chain they were undeveloped--just a distant archipelago that happened to have blazing white beaches, luxuriant foliage, wildlife, excellent scuba diving and room for an he'd-better-be-a-bloody-good-pilot airstrip. Being a nature-lover, Klein's plan was to keep the islands underdeveloped. Structures were installed such a way that should be change his mind, he could pack up the resort and leave no trace--like a circus. Almost everything is moveable or biodegradable. The casitas, the kitchen and spa are wood-framed canvas yurts, the boat dock is made of floating sections, pathways are coral and shell, energy is solar, and the airstrip is bare earth cut from voracious jungle. Even the spa products are edible.

Panama's most expensive beach resort, Islas Secas is not for everyone. For those used to Aman Resorts style luxury and service, Islas Secas might prove too--eco. But for someone like my husband and me and our two daughters Indigo and Sofia, it was Nirvana. The beauty of a resort like this is that you can literally run free and not disturb anyone. And there are blessed few pretensions. You can escape to any one of the islands or retreat to your casita where you will not be seen or heard by neighbors, a detail not fully appreciated until you travel with children.

Our days on Islas Secas went something like this: get up as late as possible and wander past the scarlet hibiscus and up the beach to get to breakfast to plan our activities for the day. Our choices were snorkeling, scuba diving, kayaking, deep-sea fishing, being intentionally stranded on a deserted beach with a picnic, swinging in our private hammock or having a battalion of spa treatments, including my favorite, the fresh papaya facial. In between we would all regroup at Terrazzo, the outdoor dining room, to eat dishes like sea bass ceviche with green apple and cashews or plantain crusted crab cakes.

Doug Bell, is the resort's dive master. Doug is one of those well-bred, well-read, thirty-something Americans who choose to make a living out of professional recreation. He arrived in Panama five years ago while traveling and ended up staying on. He is a dive master, a sailor, a spearfishing expert and an all-around good guy. It was Doug who drew our attention to the fact that we were traveling with a national treasure.

"No one could believe it when you showed up with Justine. I mean people in Panama idolize her. She's a household heroine. These pageants are a big deal in Central and South America. I mean in Brazil they breed girls to be beauty queens. Panamanians are so proud to have had a Miss Universe. She's a cultural icon."

It occurred to me that in the United States the bulk of people would not recognize Miss America if they fell over her. Justine, however, is a metaphor for Panama's recent coming of age. Under the influence of the U.S. for 100 years, it wasn't until 1999 that the Panama Canal and the Canal Zone (an area of 20 (??) miles in Panama City and surrounding the canal itself) was handed over to the country, causing Panamanians to feel a surge of national pride. Their country is considered "hot," both from an investment standpoint and for recreation. Tourism is up by 500 percent since 2000. Retiring Americans are snapping up land in droves, and there is a frenzy of development taking place. From all I saw, Panama stands poised to be the next Costa Rica. It follows, therefore, that claiming one of the most beautiful woman in the world fits their burgeoning profile. And Justine is a loyalist. "I've consciously made the decision to stay in Panama. I love it here--the history, the folklore, the diversity of cultural flavors, and, of course the magnificent unspoiled nature."

And Islas Secas is a prime example of that magnificence. Playa Blanca, a beach on Isla Pargo is a fifteen-minute boat ride from the resort and is so perfect it's like a Hollywood set. Being deserted there for an afternoon, we built stately castles from the powdery white sand. We snorkeled in the bird's egg blue water, transparent and rippled like lead glass. We took a nap on the raised palapa platform, built under palm trees to escape the merciless noonday sun. We raced crabs and collected shells. Another day in paradise.

To get to Bocas del Toro from Islas Secas, we flew the hour and twenty minutes back to Panama City and took a commercial flight from the Albrook Airport, landing on Isla Colón, the main island of the Bocas del Toro archipelago. There are six large islands in the Bocas chain and many small, rocky, uninhabitable ones. The four islands that attract the most attention (and visitors) are Colón, Carenero, Bastimentos, and Solarte, although only Isla Colón is developed enough to have roads. When I had bid farewell to Justine on Islas Secas she have given me a long list of her favorite beaches, restaurants and sights in Bocas del Toro. I planned to follow the list. The girl knew Panama and she had great taste.

Eerily, once we had departed Justine's company we began to see her face everywhere. I picked up the in-flight magazine on the way to Bocas--there she was. There was a poster on the Bocas airport wall--there she was. We turned on the television--there she was. Turns out she not only models, but is the spokesperson for a number of Panamanian charities working on HIV/Aids, child malnourishment, and also housing for those living in poverty, a condition a third of the country's three million souls suffer.

Gee, could Justine get any more admirable?

Bocas was in stark contrast to Islas Secas. Most noticeably, the climate is wetter. Even in the dry months it rains frequently on the Caribbean side. The road was awash in mud when we drove the mile from the airport to our hotel. We were staying at the Tropical Suites in the small, lively port town of Bocas, with its riot of colored buildings, signposts for hotels and shops selling vivid handicrafts. The Tropical Suites was clean, spacious and comfortable, the nicest hotel in Bocas Town according to most, but it seemed devoid of any Panamanian character.

Bocas lies at the southern point what was known in colonial times as the Mosquito Coast, a remote and neglected part of the British Empire that spanned the Caribbean coast of Central America in the early 19th century. The people of Bocas del Toro are culturally diverse: some are indigenous Indians, some Spanish, and many are of African descent, having arrived in the 1920s when South Americans and Englishmen came to homestead, bringing their slaves.

Virtually unnoticed by tourism until the early 1990's, Bocas is still developing. The town itself has hideous, pot-holed roads and with typical tropical insouciance there are building sites that were begun and abandoned soon after. But there is no doubt that the place has charm, that sort of happy-hippy appeal that places like Goa and Koh Samui had in the 1970s, although these days the hippies are joined by a tattooed surfie crowd and a few stalwart middle-aged Americans. I'm guessing we fell into the latter category.

The best view of the town is from a boat. Pastel buildings jut out over the water graced with sweeping verandahs, scrolled wooded lintels and crisp white railings. Clapboard houses from the 19th century, with their lofty ceilings and creaking fans, have been turned into hotels, youth hostels and restaurants. The town is expanding fast and I'd wager a bet that in five years the potholes will be gone.

Boatmen roam the waterfront looking for passengers to ferry to the outer beaches, and it's on these remote beaches where the real seduction of Bocas del Toro lies. Right across a narrow strip of water from the township is the tiny island of Carenero where some prefer to stay to escape the fray of the town. There's nothing here but a few small hotels, calm shores and palapa restaurants.

Boca del Drago, on the northern coast of Isla Colón, has the best swimming beaches with water so gin-clear and sand so crystalline that huge orange starfish adorn the bottom like discarded Christmas ornaments. Justine had told us about the starfish. She'd also mentioned Crawl Cay off Bastimento as the best place to snorkel and told us we must visit Dolphin Bay off Isla Cristóbal, a tranquil mangrove inlet where bottlenose dolphins reside.

Bocas is known for it's great surfing, especially in the fall. Greg, my husband, is a surfer, as was Geoff, the photographer. As soon as we touched down on Bocas their talk was obsessed with swell, breaks and wind direction. It's a strange thing to be around surfers. When they speak their eyelids droop to half-mast and they communicate in some weird form of pidgin. It's clearly integral to dudeness to appear apathetic at all times.

"Hey man, get out?"

"Yeah dude. Bluff. Kinda cranking. Solid overhead. Faded 'round noon. Skunked."

"Working tomorrow?"

"Maybe. Offshore. Maybe."

This constitutes a meaningful conversation among surfers and the streets of Bocas buzz with this type of talk. On Bastimentos, a twenty-minute boat ride from Bocas Town, there is no surf and there is a strong Rastafarian influence. By day the beaches are empty, and by night strains of reggae music seep through chinks in wooden shacks and the smell of fried plantain flavors the air. At the full moon the island goes crazy, throwing a beach party where dreadlocked locals with images of Haile Selassie (Ras Tafari himself) on their chests revel alongside batik-wearing foreigners with nose-rings.

Having promised my daughters a rainforest experience, we took Justine's suggestion and caught a boat out to Bastimentos to walk the Red Frog track, sanctuary to tiny, toxic, cherry-red frogs indigenous to the island. Mosess, our young boatman with ebony skin and a dazzling set of teeth patiently walked with us, offering an odd warning when he caught a frog to show us, "Ya don' wanna lick da frogs, dey poisonous." I wondered how many eager frog-lickers he'd had to contain in the past.

Stumbling out of the steamy forest we ended up on the wide, white swath of Red Frog beach where ocean-born waves tumbled local children swimming fully clothed. We joined them and stayed until it became painfully obvious why the Brits had called it the "Mosquito Kingdom."

One morning at breakfast we befriended Michigan-born Kelly Berube and her Panamanian husband Juan-Pablo DeCaro. They ran the restaurant at the Tropical Suites and added to Justine's list. For a break from the beach, they told us to head inland to La Gruta, a cave where thousands of bats lived.

The taxi climbed away from the beach and into the hinterland of Isla Colón, where once-rich banana plantations are now small farms or reclaimed jungle. The fecundity was palpable, plants insatiably fighting for light, for space, for nourishment. Everything around us was feverishly alive. Leaves glowed luminous emerald, as large as tabletops; vines grasped and twirled, callously smothering their hosts; sycophants latched on and bloomed beautiful, and the sun's heat turned last night's rain into thick air.

At the entrance to La Gruta there was a clearing used as an outdoor church. Eighty-five percent of Panamanians are Roman Catholics so churches are apparent everywhere. Wood benches faced a tilting shrine dappled in shadow by the canopy overhead and statues of Mary stood propped in rocky crooks. It was easy to understand the rapture of this serene place.

Thousands of bats lodged pitched protest as we waded up the stream on the floor of the cave, disturbing their gloomy asylum with headlamps. Merely small fruit-eating bats, they still managed to solicit the inevitable "Aw gross!" from the children.

Exiting the caves, a juvenile white-faced capuchin monkey bounded towards the girls, recognizing if not its brethren then close enough. Both parties looked mutually delighted until a faceless voice called from the trees, "Cuidadoso, he bites." Capuchin monkeys are not native to Bocas del Toro, and this one would have been appropriated from mainland. People keep them as pets until they often turn aggressive and then owners release them, often in inappropriate environments.

That night we hired a babysitter ($2 and hour was top-dollar for such services) and went to eat at El Pecado, the restaurant Justine had chosen as her favorite. That and Om, a funky, fabulous, Buddha-adorned Indian food restaurant were her recommendations. Bocas Town has the best restaurants in the archipelago, with the exception of Roots, a wonderful over-the-water reggae bar and restaurant on Bastimentos.

Located in a lopsided two-storied house on the main street of Bocas, El Pecado (The Sin) served fresh fish, lobster, crab, and shrimp in artsy surroundings. Hanging on the walls were masks that looked distinctly West African. They were fearsome and colorful, spitting red and black flames with a mouth of astonishingly real teeth. With research I learned that they derived from slaves who escaped their Spanish masters and settled deep in the inhospitable jungle of Panama as far back as the 1500s. Mixed with the Catholicism of their modern lives, the African fetish masks evolved to represent the Christian devil, who, por supuesto, is defeated by angles.

Justine had steered us well during our trip and I began to believe I had seen Panama through her eyes. Even in fabulous, modern Panama City where we spent our last night, Justine sent me to shops, restaurants and craft markets she felt best represented the individuality of her people, her culture, and her country.

Child researchers have often written about the fact that even as babies we are attracted to beauty in others. After meeting Justine, Indigo and Sofia, who were smitten by her, told all who would listen that they knew Panama's queen, even though it's apparently no longer politically correct to use the term. (I'd overheard Sofia, aged five, breathlessly ask Justine, "What's it like being a beauty queen?" and Justine had bristled at the term, saying, "We don't call it that any longer." Sofia's face had collapsed and Justine made a diving catch, "But I do have a crown...")

Despite her protestations, Justine seems to be the reigning queen of Panama for her people. Perhaps they see in her what we did--a beauty as gentle, pure and as natural as her slender country.