Humble living does not diminish. It fills.
Going back to a simpler self gives wisdom.
-Rumi
Boquete, Panama 2022
Living at the peak of a mountain in Central America with no car provides its own unique set of day to day challenges. Experiences as I like to call them. My simple casa is perched roughly 8 kilometers / 5 miles from the town center of Boquete. Making my way up and down the mountain from where I live for supplies such as groceries or to refill the propane tank for hot water have proven to be their own interesting set of adventures. My very first trip into town, I walked the full distance, passing onion fields, indigenous workers, a random snake or scorpion. Walking five miles is one thing on a flat surface, but up and down a mountain at the base of a volcano is quite another. It also all depends on what you are carrying. Twenty-five pounds in your backpack makes a huge difference.
A friend had told me that walking down the mountain was much “easier” and “leisurely” compared to walking back up. I can assure you this is not so. Over the years, I have done triathlons and marathons and nothing quite prepared me for the pounding on my body and my hamstrings as walking at a 45 degree slope for an hour and a half. Not to mention in Central America the drivers that frequently send you diving into the ditch. It is my personal theory that getting a driver’s license in Panama requires nothing more than passing any eye exam. By the time I reached the bottom and made my way into town I felt as if someone had taken two screwdrivers and jammed them into each of my hamstrings. I was only kept going by seeing an old indigenous woman walking all the way into town in sandals while carrying a bag of something heavy on her shoulder such as rice or coffee and a small child in the other arm. The indigenous people do this every day. It is not uncommon to see a Ngábe man walking up the mountain with a 50 lb propane tank on his shoulder.
This has left only two other options for me…transportation by taxi, which runs $5-8 per trip each way, which adds up to too much on my nomad budget, or the mini bus which the locals take to and from town into the various surrounding mountain areas. This costs only $1.75, but as I would soon learn you roll the dice with your life. At the suggestion of my friend (who had never personally taken one of the buses by the way) I decided to try this. Nothing could have prepared me for what I had in store.
In the center of Boquete is a town square, where the small buses pick up and take mostly locals to the surrounding areas in the mountains. My concern grew when I saw one of the drivers duck into the adjacent market and come out with a gallon of tequila which he placed under his seat before taking off in the bus. From what I could see, absolutely no “Gringos” or expats participated in the local bus service. They took either taxis or their own cars. I guess I was beginning to live like the locals. I had been told by my friend, who had never taken the bus, that the buses were very easy for transportation and came every 15 minutes. When I arrived to the area where the buses were parked, I spotted the bus with the sign that said “El Salto / Volcancito.” I knew this was my bus.
As I approached the bus, I said to the driver, who was distracted between his iPhone and every attractive woman that passed by, “Los Naranjos, mi amigo?” Los Naranjos is the gravel road I live on.. “Si, amigo,” he assured me. As I made my way onto the bus I took the last remaining seat. I figured this meant we would close the doors and head out momentarily. Not so in Panama. As we sat there in the afternoon heat for the next 30-45 minutes, people of every shape and size continued to pile onto the bus. There were no more remaining seats but they continued to pile in. It was like one of those clown cars in the circus. I couldn’t see where anyone was going but they kept passing me one by one and piling onto the bus. At one point, a woman of at least 300 pounds crossed over me. Two women with a birthday cake sat on top of each other in the front seat. Someone placed a dog on my lap. I watched as cases of water and soda were loaded onto the back of the bus. Bags of rice and other items were tied onto the roof. I was concerned the axle was going to snap. Passengers were sandwiched standing in the aisle.
Finally, the driver got in. With three failed attempts he managed to get the engine started on the fourth try and we began slowly grinding away from the curb in first gear. Everything inside me was screaming to jump out, but it was too late. My adventure was only just beginning. I was lodged in the middle of the front bench seat between two large indigenous women and with someone’s dog on my lap. To make matters even more concerning, the driver began heading south out of town when my house was located north of town on the mountain. I was helpless. We were on a bus ride going in the opposite direction of where I lived. As we drove and ground gears for 15 minutes in the opposite direction of where I was trying to go, I felt like a trapped animal in a cage and had no idea where we were heading as this mystery bus barreled down the road away from my house and the mountain.
What I did not realize at the time was that Volcancito (hence the name on the bus), was a vast winding loop which circled all of Boquete. I was now on this ride and I couldn’t get off. I think there’s a song about that. I also began to notice that the driver would venture down every possible side gravel road and make random stops and somehow even more people would pile on. Frequently, the driver would make stops and get out for 10 minutes to talk so one of his buddies we passed on the route. Meanwhile, the sweat poured down my face and my blood pressure kept rising. As people piled on, I was genuinely concerned that the tires would not hold and might go flat or potentially explode causing injury to children playing in the road. In Central American fashion, there seemed to be no time table or schedule whatsoever for any of this as the driver continue to chat while he and his buddies would burst out in laughter. The loud Cumbia music blasting from the speakers set the mood.
It occurred to me to jump off, but I had no idea where in the world I was. After a good half hour of this, I happened to notice we were now heading back down the mountain toward Boquete again. Somehow we had passed the area where I lived and never stopped anywhere near my house or street. I was still holding two bags of groceries and a dog in my lap. The lady next to me and I were swapping sweat. Suddenly, I panicked and shouted to the driver “Alto!!” He slammed on the brakes and all passengers packed into the back surged forward. No seatbelts worn here. He let me out while everyone on board burst out in laughter and I heard more than one comment referencing “the Gringo.”
I was now near the very bottom of the mountain frustratingly close to where we had started. I had my groceries in hand and it would easily now be a 4-5 mile walk up the mountain.
This experience on the bus left me a bit shell shocked. I have travelled in many countries but this was at the top of my list of white knuckle experiences. After painfully making the trek up the mountain to get home, I had to now reconsider how I would get to and from town on a regular basis.
My next adventure would be by electric bike.
View from the Road
In July 2019 I set off on a one year adventure to Kyoto, Japan. I am now 3 years and 4 countries later. Same bag, same water bottle, likely same shirt. That launch into the unknown adventure was the the most transformational year of my life and set the sail for where I am and how I am living now. The Zen Nomad was born.
Field Notes
It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.
She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.
And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.
Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.
The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.
Khalil Gilbran
From the Archives
Travel back in time to Kyoto with this article from the archives. Become a Founding Member or Paid Subscriber and access all articles from the past five years.
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