Jungle Trek

  They had said to keep taking the trail to the left. But what constituted a trail was open to interpretation. Was it the slightly cleared one, about a foot wide with a slight dusting of fallen leaves? Or was it the one a bit further on that looked more like a dry riverbed? 

  So here we are, lost in the jungle on the Isle of Saboga, in the Pearl Islands, off the coast of Panama. I had only wanted to walk into town from where I was staying. The new resort manager, having newly arrived herself, only 4 days ago in fact, volunteered to go with me as she wanted to get a sense of the trails outside the Lodge leading into town. The handyman had said that it was simple: just keep to the trails on the left. Ha! Famous last words. 

  Alright, let’s take the little one. Off we go. After a while, another crossroad, this time at an electric pole. That’s a good sign, civilization. Left again. Now I’m thinking, if I remember from arithmetic class, don’t 3 lefts make a right? Never mind, follow the trails. And out onto a glorious beach we emerge. Oops, this can’t be right, er, correct. They had said that the beaches were AFTER the village. Made a wrong left somewhere back on the trail. Now as we backtrack, we have to take trails to the right. This is getting so confusing. Completely sweat drenched from the stifling heat, the only sound comes from our feet squeaking out of our flip flops. Then we spot a white PVC pipe that leads us to a pumping station. Eureka! The handyman had said that that was one of the markers. And soon enough we emerge, just past the garbage dump onto a concrete path, a cross between a road and a sidewalk, at the edge of town.

  All cinder block homes with corrugated roofs painted vibrant colors. All green here, all blue there, all yellow over there. A two-tone house? Bite your tongue! That’s too showy, too fancy. What would the neighbors think? We find a little market and quickly, like starving drifters out of the sandy desert dunes, quaff down a couple of ice cold beers. Aah, that’s better. There’s a little church up the concrete path to our right and in front, a teeny tiny plaza that overlooks the main beach. At that beach we find a lovely Italian restaurant. Few more beers with some tuna and salmon carpaccio. Smooth. Another one or two with the seafood pasta. It is hot and humid after all. A momentary thought of, “How the hell are we going to find our way back if we can neither see nor walk straight?” But the next round quickly pushes such crazy talk away. Feeling good now. Ooo, is that tiramisu? 

  Salvation! As we chat over espressos, the restaurant owner and chef comes over and as is tradition with all great Italian eateries, brings along a chilled bottle of homemade limoncello. Yes, please! He suggests that we take a boat back to the beach just below the Lodge. What a splendid idea. He calls over Pipi, seriously, that's his name, and arrangements are made. The 15 minute boat ride around the point was wonderful. We’re soaked again though this time from deliciously cool sea spray. As we near our beach, we realize that we’ll have to make a beach landing and brave a few waves to get out of the boat. Not a problem, until I trip over a submerged rock and face plant into the surf. Um, meant to do that. We all laugh. What a perfect way to end a jungle trek. 

  I think tomorrow I’ll brave that hammock by the pool.