Before crossing over into the last Central American country, I made a couple of fixes post the highway crash of the day before. 

 

The handlebars were easy to untwist. They're in rubber mounts that usually take a twist after a spill. Loosen nuts under the triple clamp, straighten the 'bars, retighten. The forks were also tweaked, just in case: loosen front axle and lower triple clamp, push down hard to let the forks move back to the right spot, retighten.

 

The gear lever is steel, so shouldn't complain at being unbent. The trick was being able to hold one end solidly while bending from the other. I heard that the car wash over the road would have a vice. They didn't, but a worker there lodged the lever in a nearby steel beam and gave it a shove by hand. Viola! Third, fourth and fifth gears usable again. Strong fella.

 

Most of Costa Rica's border with Panama is along the Sixaola River.  The northern frontier is a big bridge with immigration and customs buildings nestled at each end. There's quite a pedestrian stream in both directions. 

I wonder if any are folk from South America travelling north hoping for a new life in the States? Some of the people trafficking stories are heart wrenching.

eg. Life savings being stolen after days of trekking across the Darien Gap.

 

The usual bullshit procedures took a couple of hours. 

Gotta love how dedicated to biosecurity some jurisdictions are. Back when entering Guatemala, a bloke with his spray backpack had squirted both wheels and charged $3. I reckon he wet about ten spokes, but at least his country's agricultural industry was safe. Panama had an elaborate frame full of squirters to rinse the whole bike.

 

I met Juan from Madrid, riding his 701 Husqvarna that he'd shipped to Costa Rica. Here he is with one of the sticky "helpers" that clamour for business at the borders. This kid insisted on watching both bikes and telling us which counter to visit next, despite me repeating that I didn't want help. He still asked for money at the end.

 

Juan and I met up again that night in Alimantre, a stepping off point for the archipelago Bocas del Toro. We had a couple of beers with our enormous plate of fried rice and got to know each other. He was great fun; we enjoyed our few days together.

 

Next morning at the ferry out to Colón Island we met nine riders in their twenties from Panama City. They had beach, dinner and camping plans, would we like to join them? Sure! said the two old men, so off we went.

Our new friends were photo crazy. On Colón Island they asked some cops if we could use a kids' play area in front of the town sign for a shot. 

 

After riding across most of Colón we swapped two wheels for a boat, to get to Starfish Beach.

 

I spotted only one starfish maybe 25cm in diameter. It was obviously a high tourism spot, with seafront bars and inner tube boat rides at full noise, so I shouldn't be surprised. We returned by walking across part of the island.

 

Following our swim, we dumped the bikes with one of their friends and took a little boat to Bastimentos Island. They'd arranged dinner at a restaurant built on stilts over the water. 

 

Later in the dark we walked out to a deserted beach. Once tents were in place  a driftwood fire was started.  It was lovely. No intrusive noise, no intrusive lights. I've camped many times closeby a beach, but can't recall ever camping right on one.

 

Luminescent plankton flashed quick white bursts as waves hit our bodies under a starry sky.

 

At some stupid hour of the morning, Julio woke me up: "Gavin! There's a crazy man walking along the beach calling out! We think he wants to rob us! Don't show any light!" With eleven of us, I was all for just going back to sleep. A bit later, Julio woke me again: "Gavin! The police are here! They need your details!"

Sure enough, four coppers in full camo gear were there, taking names and insisting on passports et cetera. They then escorted us back to "town", all for own safety apparently. As the sky was lightening and the roosters crowing we returned to the same restaurant, crashing on the floor until coffee and breakfast arrived.

 

It turned out that Julio had called the fuzz, which some of his friends disagreed with. There was tension. Juan and I just shrugged and went along with it all. We were their guests.

Later it was said that a young lady had been killed on that beach.

 

Anyway ... the kids were full of beans once the sun was up, so off they went to another spot for more fun. The two old men were pretty buggered, so we shook hands and parted ways. Our new mates' enthusiasm had been terrific. I'm glad we met them.

 

That night Juan and I stayed at a BnB run by Cuban born Jorge and local partner Patricia. Little kid Darwin was delightful, showing off their big garden and his pet chickens and turkeys.

 

Jorge cut coconuts from a palm for each of us to drink from. Delicious!

 

Their driveway was steep, lumpy and slippery - something we talked about longer than it took to descend in the morning.

Next was the town of Boquete up in the hills near volcano Baru. There are allegedly a heap of brilliant hikes there but in our two days it didn't stop raining. A small walk looping around streets above the town was pleasant enough in light drizzle. However the days were a bit hohum.

 

The most interesting part of Boquete was eavesdropping on a group of aged US expats crapping on the morning after the orange bloke was (re)elected in their home country. Some wholeheartedly supported the president-elect and their (to my ears) wacky opinions amused this dumb Australian. 

Juan only ever planned to tour Costa Rica and Panama, so after Boquete we split. We'd got along well and learned from each other.

 

November is a big holiday month for Panamanians.  

• 2nd: Day of the Dead - relatives visiting graves, no alchohol to be sold - our fried rice and beers night :) 

• 3rd: Independence from greater Columbia in 1903

• 4th: Flag day

• 10th: First Cry of Freedom From Spain, when the revolution got underway in 1821

• 28th: Independence Day From Spain also 1821

So national colours were everywhere on roadsides, houses, government buildings, taxis, private cars and so on.

 

I loved seeing these flags in the bathroom of a couple who ran a "fodar" (small eatery) from their own house. 

 

 

I stayed in El Valle de Anton for two nights, hoping to scratch a hiking itch. India Dormida ("sleeping Indian") is a spot renowned for amazing views down to the volcano crater that the town is in. Sadly the views were not so amazing (that white is all cloud). Nice walk though.

 

Worse yet, I managed to lose my wallet. Maybe on the hike. Maybe a fellow guest. Maybe my host. Maybe even the host's dog. I dunno why. I just know that it's gone. 

Ok, a few $s down the drain. Sad, but not the end of the world. However losing my main card is a real pain. Out came the emergency cash and card stash from under the battery. That's enough for now, though I'm on thin ice with only a single source of funds.
 

In El Valle, US born tax minimisers Chuck and Connie open their home to any travellers. Given the crappy weather they generously offered a bed to avoid a soaking in the tent. It was greatly appreciated, along with their clothes dryer. They don't ask for anything, save some conversation.

Both were engaging to talk with. I did feel the need to watch my Ps & Qs - they were a bit churchy, plus Chuck's YouTube channel The Hot Zone (Chuck visits and reports on war zones) had me suspect his strident views might not match mine.

 

A bonus at Chuck and Connie's was yarning with Lai and Michael.

 

They've been touring in their ginormous van for two years and plan nine more. What happy, thoughtful people. We laughed at some of our common Latin American experiences. 

 

Leaving El Valle for the city, I attempted to take some minor roads/tracks that showed up on Gaia GPS, a detailed topographic mapping app. The tar disappeared pretty quickly. On the steeper hills, two narrow concrete strips  were laid for local vehicles. 

When the concrete was muddy and wet it was entertaining. Downhill, just the right mix of clutch and brake to keep the back turning but slow enough to stay on a strip did the job. Uphill was about momentum and quick steering inputs, as usual.

Blowed if I could find a way through. After a few dead ends I gave up. Local kids thought it was funny.

 

The biggest visitor drawcard is that famous stretch of water joining the Atlantic and Pacific. The canal is fascinating on many fronts. 

The locks work with negligible energy, yet they permit huge tubs to cross the country through its 82km lake / dug channel system. 

Here's a boat that left the Atlantic some 8 hours ago, heading for the Miraflores locks. It could have been named after the captain's wife.

 

No water is pumped; rather gravity both fills and drains the lock in under ten minutes.

 

The only artificial effort is operating the gates and valves, plus pulling the ships by six "mules" (small electric trains).

Our friend the MONING dropped 16m slowly and quietly until at last the gates could be opened.

 

... after which the mules pulled her through, now at sea level.

 

Off she went to the Pacific.

 

Upon arrival at my Panama City digs there was a happy bunch of bicyclists. Could I send a photo to my wife in Australia who is a pushbike nut please? Sure! Want a beer while you're here? So I enjoyed a rather raucous couple of hours with these good folk.

 

Every Sunday they ride and every Monday night they run. Ooh - can I join you tomorrow please? Sure can! Turns out they're a local chapter of the Hash House Harriers. I'd heard the name, but didn't know what they did. Their moto: "A drinking club with a running problem".

BnB hosts Popo and Alva walked me to the start where a bunch of cheerful souls surrounded a huge tub of iced drinks. After some frivolity we set off on the city streets for a half hour baffling-to-me chase game. Not flat out, but enough to sweat.

 

Back at the start we got stuck into the beers for a couple of hours. Lots of laughs. Folk from various countries. Virgin "hashers" are obliged to scull a can to awful singing, after which they're baptised with more lager. A shocking surprise, let me tell you.

It was the most fun for a long time.

 

The little I saw of Panama City intrigued me.  Initial impressions of huge housing blocks were bad. These blocks were the good ones - most had crap everywhere:

 

The rough areas were just on the outskirts though. The waterfront was quite appealing, joggers, families et cetera. The road and public transport systems are done well. It's hard to see here in this shot, but a four lane freeway runs in a big wide arc over the water, avoiding existing properties. 

 

 

I regret not spending more days there. 

 

But! Some seven months after starting, it was time to leave the northern continent. 

 

At the airport I left the bike with a bunch of other adventure machines. They were all being stored while their owners take a break from travels.

 

Nice to see an old airhead GS still globetrotting.

 

 

Please excuse me. I've got a plane to catch for Colombia.