The Yellow Backpack Voyeur: Me in Guadeloupe, Panama
Praying that "Ray" isn't waiting for me, I stumble downstairs to the Pension Virginia restaurant with my backpack. It is 8 am. I'm leaving Boquete today, psyching myself up for the bus trip down the mountain to the city of David. There I will transfer buses to go up the mountain again along the other side. The entire trip, I calculate, will probably take longer than it would to go over the rift on foot.
Still frustrated about not being able to hike the rift on the Sendero Los Quetzales, I'm not in the best mood this morning. Then I meet an Irish brother and sister "on holiday" sitting at the counter. Like the Irish usually can, they make me smile without even trying.
We swap Panamanian travel stories and order coffee. It's nice to speak English for a change. I learn the real Gaelic spelling, "Cailin," and meaning, "little witch" of my name. For years I'd thought Colleen only meant "girl." (So much for the Webster's Dictionary definition.) "Little witch" sounds so much more fun.
Before I go, I tell the Irish about the gorgeous Boquete valley road that makes for a full afternoon walk, and wish them well. I have to go. A rickety old school bus awaits.
It seems like most of my time spent in Central America is on buses. Why is that? Maybe because I'm cheap, or maybe more likely it's because it's an easy way to meet people, or simply an easy way to watch them. Buses are a tiny slice country within a country. I like the idea that I've been able to glimpse life from within these culture-transporters. I am a voyeur with a yellow backpack, and happy to be here. Happy despite the lack of shock-absorbers.
The heat comes on gradually as we descend the valley, and by the time we're in David it's a hothouse. The bus station is crazy, made up of three huge concrete areas surrounding covered walkways where people sit and wait. Where the walkways converge is the ticket area and concessions. Knick-knacks and chicken strips and bags of pork rinds hang from nearly every crevice in the station. There is no stop to the people. Buses are pulling up and away at a frenetic pace.
I must look confused, because a young Panamanian man comes up to me and asks where I am going. I tell him "Cerro Punta" and he happily leads me to the waiting bus. I thank him and wave as he walks back to the place where he saw me. The bus doesn't leave for another 15 minutes, but I decide to jump in lest it leave early. (Indeed, I am a crazy American. Central American buses NEVER leave early.) This bus is unlike many of the others at the station. It is sleek and new and resembles a large minivan. And it's air-conditioned inside. I sit and wait.
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