June 2007
We were on the main drag in Santiago, Panama, which is also the Pan-American Highway, looking for the turn-off that would take us to Santa Fe, up in the mountains.  The City of Santiago is about halfway between Panama City to the east and David to the west.  To the south is the Azuero Peninsula and Pacific Ocean.  To the north is the Cordillera Central – the Central Mountains and, on the other side, the Caribbean. 

As had been our experience in driving around the Azuero Peninsula the previous week, the highway we were looking for was unmarked – no signs, no arrows, no nada.  The clutter of commercial signage and bustle of Santiago traffic may have obscured any signs from our view but the lack of directional aid didn’t bother us anymore.  We saw a likely looking roadway going towards the mountains, made a turn, and headed off to what we hoped was Santa Fe. 

By now we had become comfortable with our travel plan.  We booked no rooms, had no commitments, and figured if things didn’t fall into place we could sleep in the car for a night and survive on snacks until we got to the next place down the road.  Panama isn’t Patagonia with vast distances to travel; you’re always a tank full of gas away from a sizable city, especially if you’re driving a gas sipping little Toyota like we were.  Santa Fe was only about 30-miles from Santiago, and even if you were inclined to go much further into the Cordillera you would run out of paved highway in Santa Fe.  You could cross over the mountains and drive down to the Caribbean but you would want a four-wheel drive truck, with no slip traction and a very good winch – it’s more mud bog than road.  Once you arrived at the tiny village of Calovebora on the Caribbean you would need a boat for any further travel.

Like most of the roadways we had driven in Panama, the highway to Santa Fe had two narrow lanes, one each direction.  There was a sizeable drop-off at the pavement edge that prevented you from pulling off the road to better enjoy the beauty of the mountains.  Photo-ops were created by stopping in the middle of the road, jumping out, and snapping a shot while praying no speeding cattle truck was coming round the curve behind you.  The small amount of traffic on the most highways we traveled lessened the chance of being road kill but there was always a risk that someone in the near future could be saying,  “And that was the last photo that idiot ever took.” 

About 15 miles outside of Santiago we came to a modern looking building perched on the side of a hill overlooking the valley below.  It was a cheese factory that had a small restaurant and seemed like a good place for a late breakfast.  There were two young women behind the counter selling the usual assortment of empanadas and a variety of cheeses.  These were not designer cheeses with fancy labels and quaint shapes; they came in Styrofoam tubs and all varieties were white and glutinous looking despite having different names.  We bought some cheese to add to our snacking menu.  We took our cheese, empanadas and coffee to an outside table and enjoyed the green lushness of the valley below while discovering our folly in buying a half pint of bland, chalky cheese.  Maybe it was meant to be an ingredient in cooking rather than being nibbled as a snack. 

As we pressed on to Santa Fe the mountains began to close in on us.  These were big, muscular mountains, covered in dense green forests.  Unlike the mountains in the Azuero Peninsula, these have not been as extensively cleared for grazing and farming.  Santa Fe is located on the flank of a river valley  - we were there in the rainy season so everything was deep, dark green due to the overcast sky,  with clouds often obscuring the mountaintops that rose  6,000 to 7,000 feet in elevation.   After the oppressive heat of the Azuero lowlands the cooler temperatures at this height  were most welcome.

Just outside of town we spotted the Hotel Santa Fe and pulled in to see if we could book a room for the night.  A young man in the restaurant next to the front office was able to direct us to a room that was comfortable by rural Panama standards.  It was a little worn around the edges but provided basic comforts like warm water, clean sheets, an air conditioner, and, most importantly, a television that could muster up an acceptable picture of the on-going World Cup games.  We had become great futbol fans on this trip to Panama since everyone was watching the games and rooting for all the Latin American teams (Panama had no team in contention). 

Soon after becoming settled in the hotel we met a young couple from the States who were also guests in the hotel.  Robert and Patty were traveling around Panama by bus, primarily to surf but, after storing their boards in Santiago, had come to Santa Fe to do some hiking.  We drove into town together to get some ice and snacks and to do a tour of the town.  It was a short tour.  There was a church and central plaza, a couple of tiendas (grocery and dry goods), a mercado, an agricultural cooperative building, and, of course, local residences.  After letting Robert and Patty off to do a walking tour we stopped at one of the tiendas to do some shopping.  As is invariably the case, there were a few locals hanging out in front of the store, and, just as invariably, they greeted with a nod and a “Buenos.”  This is the standard greeting in Panama.  No “dias” just “buenos.”  These rural stores usually carried canned goods, chips, cookies, beer, soda, soap, bottled water, and other things you would find in a convenience store back in the U.S.  But you could also find a bin of flip-flops, ropes, tubs of lard and the distinctive hats that Santa Fe cowboys wore with flat brims and Azuero cowboys wore with the brim turned up in front.

Back at the hotel, later that evening, we had dinner at the hotel restaurant.  It was a small room with five or six tables, most filled with fellow guests.  The Hotel Santa Fe seemed to be run by a woman in her late forties or early fifties who had an air of authority over her minions that could only be that of a mother over her children.  They did her bidding but without the immediacy you would expect from someone who really needed the job to survive.  There was a man, also around 50, who manned the kitchen but his subservient and sullen demeanor didn’t seem to be that of a Latin father – he was no head of household.

However, he was a good cook.  We had langostinos and the ever-present corvina, a fish filet we found on almost all menus in Panamanian restaurants.  In Panama you are never that far from the sea; we had witnessed the arrival of a small truck delivering iced-down sea food earlier that day.  We also had patacones that are made by deep frying one-inch slices of plantains, taking them out and whacking them flat, and then refrying them again to a golden crispness . . . Muy bueno. 

Later that evening we met some of our fellow guests out on the covered porch that surrounds the u-shaped hotel.  Our immediate neighbors were a family from the States who had been touring Panama in a rented SUV.  They were high school teachers with a teenage daughter.  Ken spoke at length about their travels but two items stayed with me.  The first was their experience in a Panamanian hospital when their daughter broke her foot.  They had taken her to a hospital in David, near the Costa Rican border.  David is a fairly big city so it had a full service hospital.  Ken had been much pleased with the rapid attention they received, the quality of the care, and the low cost of having their daughter’s foot attended to and set in a cast.  The second item that left an impression was his negative description of their visit to Boquete, a mountain town much touted as a retirement haven for Americanos and Canadians.  He was especially put off by some environmentally insensitive development taking place, saying it was similar to what you might see in the U.S. with total clearing of land to ease laying out and building homes.  This would not be the last negative impression of Boquete I would hear on this trip but, to be fair, I heard a number of positive things said about the place also.

The next day my wife and I had arranged for a guide to take us hiking in the mountains to a waterfall.  We weren’t sure exactly where we were going or what we were going to see since it had all been arranged through the young man we believed to be the son of the lady who ran the hotel and his English was no better than our Spanish.  Our guide was Pablito who also worked at the hotel as a gardener and maintenance man.  Pablito spoke no English but was adept at getting understood by pointing and hand gestures.  The first thing he did was point at our car, and then up at the hills, and then made a backward flourish of his hand that left no doubt we were to all hop in the car and head up the mountain.  I think Pablito was probably an Indio, perhaps one of the Guaymi people who populate the area.  He was a small, lithe man with aquiline features and soft, inquiring eyes.

We drove on a dirt road that was mildly challenging for our small car due to the eroded surface of the road, rocky patches, and steep inclines.  Hey - it was a rental car.  We proceeded upward until Pablito gestured for us to pull over and park since the road was becoming even worse.  We hiked further up the road past a few small homes perched on the slope of the mountain, past a Catholic school, past smaller tracks leading onto ridges where scattered homes were placed to take full advantage of the fantastic views of mountain ranges off to the north.  It wasn’t raining but it was overcast with damp mists clamping down on us.  It was wonderful.  Eventually Pablito pointed to a small stile in a fence and we went through onto a narrow pathway leading down into a canyon.  We were surrounded by rain forest and could see only about 50 feet ahead, into a wall of green and gray foliage.  The path was very steep and muddy so Pablito took my wife’s hand to steady her descent.  After a mile or so we started to hear falling water and began an even steeper descent down to the waterfall.  The waterfall was only 15 feet or so in height.  We had expected something with more tourist attraction punch – something to wow the crowds, something to compensate the long trudge through the forest.  However, I can’t say we were totally disappointed; the place was much too beautiful.  The cliffs bracketing the falls were draped in leafy ferns of many species, all with giant leafs that glistened from the mist arising from the plunging water.  Bright green moss covered the rocks at the base of the falls. 

After having been in the company of Pablito for two or so hours he became quite talkative even though we could understand very little of his Spanish and he almost none of our English. He had brought a lunch that he began to eat and we snacked on some items we had brought along.  Breaking bread with someone always seems to break the ice.  We learned he was 41 years old, had a wife and two young boys, and was happy working at the Hotel Santa Fe.  He learned that we might settle in Panama someday and that Santa Fe might be a place we could call home.  He was watching me taking pictures with our small digital camera, asking what is cost, and asked if I would take his picture.  I did of course and he posed with a solemn look in front of the mini waterfall and on some nearby rocks. 

We left the waterfall and labored our way out of the canyon and back to the road.  The walk back to the car was a little easier being downhill and we had more leisure to enjoy the views of the distant mountains and valleys surrounding Santa Fe.  I imagined my wife and I living in a house on these upper slopes and having these incredible views.  But I also could imagine being isolated by our inability to connect with neighbors because of our limited ability to speak and comprehend Spanish.  Simply being able to speak rudimentary Spanish does not, it seems to me, allow you to get to know people well.  Can you judge a person's character and make a connection if you are limited to a vocabulary and fluency of a three year-old child?  I think we would have to move to a country, rent, and give the place a test drive before any long-term commitment. 

Pablito was not concerned about language issues and kept up his dialogue in Spanish.  I guess between my wife and I we could respond well enough to lead him to believe we comprehended more than we did.  I didn’t know how to say in Spanish, “Whoa dude, we don’t have a clue.”  But that was okay, he was enjoying himself and despite the language difficulties he was pleasant company.  A miscommunication did occur when we asked Pablito “Donde esta la tienda por cerveza.”  We wanted to know where we could buy a six-pack of beer for our ice chest.  Pablito said he would take us there.  We ended up not at a market but at a neighborhood beer garden.  One or more of these neighborhood “jardins” are found in most towns. They are a place where local people go to have a drink, listen to music, and socialize with their neighbors.  Jardins are usually open-sided with a roof and some enclosed sections for storage and restrooms.  This one sat atop a small hill with nice views of the mountains as patrons sipped on a beer.  There were three or four other customers but not many due to the early hour.  We figured why not enjoy a beer after our hike – we could find the market later. 

We sat down at a small table near the parking lot and I walked over to the bar to get some beer.  I think I paid about 50 cents per bottle and returned to the table with three ice-cold beers.  A policeman sat nearby with another customer, not drinking beer but having a casual conversation with his tablemate.  At another table sat a young mother with two little girls drinking what I guessed to be soft drinks.  It was a laid back atmosphere despite the policeman being present.  Often in third world countries the presence of a policeman makes people wary.  We cobbled together a conversation with Pablito and were enjoying ourselves enough to order another beer.  Halfway through the second beer I noticed that Pablito seemed to be slurring his words and becoming even more talkative.  Could he be getting drunk on just a bottle and a half of beer?  Given his small size this could have been the case.  We reckoned it was time to leave.  We didn’t want to return Pablito to the Hotel Santa Fe in an inebriated state.

On the way back to the hotel Pablito asked to stop along the road.  We had given him some of our uneaten snacks, bags of chips, cookies and some cans of cola.  He disappeared through some bushes and returned minutes later without the snacks.  We think his house was somewhere behind those bushes and that he had taken the snacks to his two boys - it was about the time of day they would have been returning from school.  Once back in the car he directed us to another stop, nearer the town.  It was a leveled lot, about a half acre, that Pablito thought we might be interested in.  There were incredible views of the mountains.  The owner, he said, wanted $1,000 for the property.  I don’t think Pablito was in the realty business, he just knew about the lot and we had mentioned our interest in possibly moving to Panama someday.  Pablito was probably a poor man who looked for every opportunity to make some money to support his family and finding a buyer for the property might get him a few dollars.  We didn’t show much interest since weren’t really looking to buy any land on this trip. 

Going to look at the lot took us through some parts of Santa Fe we hadn’t seen before and we passed by a large bus depot and a number of small businesses surrounding it.  There was more to Santa Fe than was revealed on our earlier cruise around town.  We made it back to the hotel by late afternoon and Pablito, after reporting back to owners, came by our room to ask if we could send him a copy of the photos we had taken of him.  I told him we would be happy to do so and that I would send them to him via the hotel.  I never did send the photos because I could never find a good mailing address for the Hotel Santa Fe after returning to the States.  I feel very bad about that.

Later that evening we had dinner at the hotel restaurant.  I was waiting for my wife in the restaurant when the woman who rules the roost, Eudosia, came by my table and, very amiably, delivered a long statement in very rapid Spanish.  Not understanding even one word, I told her I couldn’t understand (Senora, por favor, no entiendo).  Rather than trying again more slowly she sighed, turned around, and walked away.  I got the feeling that Pablito may have led her to believe I was very fluent in Spanish.

The following morning we packed up the car, had a good breakfast at the hotel dining room, and settled our bill for the room and Pablito’s guide services.  We included a $10 tip for Pablito who was not around at the time (we had given him some money the previous day, before returning to the hotel - for his family).  We headed back to Santiago and the Pan-American Highway to drive to Panama’s second largest city, David. 

I liked Santa Fe and the Cordillera very much and could imagine living there and exploring the mountains all the way down to the Caribbean.  I liked Santa Fe’s rough edges.  My wife liked its beauty and the grand vistas but was put off by the lack of a well-stocked grocery, restaurants, and medical facilities. 

Our next destination would be another mountainous region, far to the west, around the towns of Volcan and Cerro Punta, near the Costa Rica border.  Perhaps this area in the shadow of Volcan Baru, Panama’s highest peak, could satisfy both of our retirement dreams. 

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