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Panama has islands in two seas: the Caribbean and the Pacific. This Central American country also has another lesser known asset: Miss Universe 2002, a Panamanian, who shares her country's beauty with writer AMANDA JONES.
The men - lots of them - were milling around us without apparent purpose. For a brief moment, I though it might be me that was the attraction. I stroked back my stringy hair, wipes the perspiration from my upper lip and tossed out a few shy smiles. Nope, wasn't me.
"Come meet Justin," said Geoff Ragatz, strolling over to us. Geoff was the Southern Californian photographer accompanying us on this trip to Panama's coasts - the Pacific and the Caribbean. Geoff had been to Panama before. He was an old Central American hand. He even had friends here, and a week before we were schedules to leave he'd called to say he was bringing someone. A girl. That was all he's say. I was traveling with my husband and two daughters - ages 5 and 7 - so it 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 Panama City's domestic airport, awaiting the private plane that would fly us to the Isla Secas island resort off the southwestern coast of the country, on the Pacific side.
Panama is one of the thinnest countries in the world, merely 30 miles wide in one spot. It also lies crookedly, like a snake, from west to east, the thread that hitches the Americas' 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 influence od the Caribbean.
There are tropical island chains off both sides. On the pacific Side are Las Perlas directly off Panama City, and Islas Secas near the Costa Rica border. On the Caribbean side, there are Bocas del Toro and San Blas. We had chosen to go to the resort on Islas Secas because it is brand-new; and to Bocas del Toro because it offers more accamodations than the Kuna Indian territory of the San Blas islands. Our trip had been planned through Panama Travel Experts, a Californian-Panama operation that lives up to its name. Its local guides are all degreed naturalists and know what American eco-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 quickly, bright, composed and humble. She is 25, grew up in Colon's American-run Canal Zone (hence the flawless English) and had worked as a model until, well, 2002 when she was crowned Miss Universe. For the first time, I felt gratitude for the nonchalance that being over 40 give a woman. I was going to spend four bikini-wearing days on an island with Miss freakishly perfect Universe?
"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 for nearly 100 years, it wasn't until 1999 that the Panama Canal and the Canal Zone were handed over to the country, causing Panamanians to feel a surge of national pride. The country is now considered "hot," both from an investment standpoint and for recreation. Tourism is up dramatically since 2000. Retiring Americans are snapping up land, and development is taking place. From what I saw Panama stands poised to be the next Costa Rica. It follows, therefore, that claiming one of the most beautiful women in the world fits its 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." ?
When I bid farewell to Justin, she gave me a long list of her favorite beaches, restaurants and shops in Bocas del Toro. I planned to follow the list. The woman knows Panama.
To get to Bocas del Toro from Islas Secas, we flew the hour and 20 minutes back to Panama City and took a commercial flight from the domestic airport, landing on Isla Colon, 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 visitors are Colon, Carenero, Bastimentos and Solarte, although only Isla Colon is developed enough to have roads.
Bocas del Toro was in stark contrast to Islas Secas. Most noticeably, the climate here 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, signs 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.
The people in Bocas del Toro are culturally diverse: Some are native Indians, some Hispanic.
Virtually untouched by tourism until the early 1990s, the Caribbean chain is still developing. The town itself has potholed 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 the tattooed surfie crowd and a few stalwart middle-ages Americans. I'm guessing we fell into the latter category.
The best view of the town is from a boat. Pastel buildings, which jut out over the water, are graces with sweeping verandas, scrolled wood 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 that 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 little here but a few small hotels, calm shores and palapa restaurants.
Boca del Drago, a town on the northern coast of Isla Colon, has the best swimming beaches with water so clear and sand so crystalline that I could see huge orange starfish adorning the bottom like discarded Christmas Ornaments.
Bocas is known for its great surfing. Greg, my husband, is a surfer, as was Geoff, the photographer. As soon as we touched down on Isla Colon, there talk was obsessed with swell, breaks, and wind direction. It's a strange thing to be around surfers. When they communicate there eyelids droop to half-mast and they speak 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."
This constitutes a meaningful conversation among surfers, and the streets of Bocas buzz with this talk.
On Bastimentos, a 10-minute boat ride from Bocas Town, there is a strong Rastafarian influence. By day, the beaches are empty, and by night, strains of reggae music seep through chinks of wooden shacks, and the smell of fried plantain flavors the air. During a full moon, the island goes crazy, throwing a beach party where dreadlocked locals revel alongside batik-wearing foreigners.
We took Justine's suggestion and caught a boat out to Bastimentos to walk the Red Frog Beach trail, 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: "Ya don' wann lik da frogs. Dey poisonous." I wondered how many eager frog-lickers he's 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 local children tumbled in the ocean waves. We joined them and stayed until it became painfully obvious what else a wet climate breeds ? mosquitoes.
One morning at breakfast we befriended Michigan-born Kelly Berube and her Panamanian Husband, Jaun-Pablo DeCaro. They run the restaurant at the Tropical Suites and added an activity 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.
By taxi, we climbed away from the beach and into the hinterland of Isla Colon, 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. Approximately 80 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 is easy to understand the rapture of this place.
Thousands of bats squealed their 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.
That night we went to eat at El Pecado Da Sabor, the restaurant Justine had chosen as her favorite. Located in a lopsided two-storied house on the main street of Bocas, El Pecado Da Sabor (The Sin Gives Flavor) serves fresh fish, lobster, crab and shrimp in artsy surroundings. Hanging on the walls are masks that look distinctly West African. They are huge and colorful, spitting red and black flames from mouths of astonishingly real teeth. The masks, called Diablicos, are from the slaves who escaped there Spanish masters and settled deep in the inhospitable jungle of Panama as far back as the 1500s. The African fetish masks evolved to represent the Christian devil, who, of course, is defeated by angels.
Justine had steered us well during our trip, and by the end I began to believe I had seen Panama through her eyes.
Indigo and Sofia, who were smitten by Justine, 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 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.."
