7/15/05
I traveled to the Islands of Bocas Del Toro, single and solo for three days. Boca’s Del Toro, which means ‘Mouth of the Bull’ in Spanish, is a group of small islands off the northernmost tip of the East side of Panama. The islands are in some ways similar to the Carribean islands off of Belize, but are still rustic and lightly populated.
To get to Bocas Del Toro I took a bus from San Jose, Costa Rica to the border of Panama. From the border I took a local taxi that brought me to a boat launch where boats leave hourly to take tourists and locals out to Bocas Del Toro.
On the boat ride to the islands, we first followed a narrow canal with tropical trees that hung overhead. We passed by the wooden shacks of “campesinos” (country folk). After a half-hour of winding through canals, we left the canal and glided for another half hour over the open ocean to reach Bocas Island, one of many tiny islands in the chain.
When the skiff pulled up to the dock at Bocas Island I noticed a small group of tan-skinned local islanders looking my way. Once I got off the boat and walked passed them I could hear a little hiss, whistling, and “hola macha” (hi, blondie.) As a North American woman this type of thing brings up some conflicting feelings. The feminist in me says, “Shut up you chauvinist pigs,” but the woman in me says, “I’m sexy and someone finally sees it.”
The island life also attracts retired men from North America who build their dream get-aways in the tropics, buy fishing boats, and drink beer from sunrise to sunset. The only problem they seem to encounter in their new dream-life is that on the island their dating pool shrinks to the size of the tiny islands they stand on. If they haven’t found a young, tropical girl to take care of them, they become as pesky as sand fleas to any new woman that comes to the island.
Walking past the island storefronts painted in sunshine yellow, mango orange, lime green, and sea blue, my traveler’s reserve started to melt. I looked around to see which hotels were charming, but affordable. I came across Las Olas, (The Waves) a three story building which was built over the ocean. On the second floor there was a balcony filled with wicker chairs to sit in while you look out at the sailboats anchored out at sea.
It was a very romantic place, which is perfect if you are traveling with a companion, but saddening if you’re traveling alone.
When I went to turn in the key to reception, I noticed that the staff were a group of dark haired, dark eyed, broad shouldered masculine creatures speaking in an unidentifiable foreign tongue. I handed the key to a young man that looked like a Trojan warrior with his broad shoulders, olive-toned skin, and thick brown curls. He winked at me as I turned and walked away. I perked-up in an instant. Romance at least seemed possible, if only in flirtation.
That night I barely slept and thought obsessively about women with families and how I didn’t have one. I even wished for a second that I were sitting in my room watching cable TV with a husband. I imagined that he would turn over in bed, initiate sex, and I would politely say “sorry not tonight hon” as I turned away from him and fantasized about the Trojans running the hotel. However, the thought of passionless companionship still seemed better than the single life where passion is still possible, but companionship often unavailable.
The next day I woke and drank dark, rich coffee as I sat on the balcony and took in the sun sparkling on the ocean. I self-consciously turned my key into yet another handsome man. I asked him where he was from, and he said Israel. He told me in English that he spoke Hebrew and that the group of men and women running the hotel were all from Israel. I found it odd but interesting that I had stumbled across my first community of Israelites on a tiny Panamanian island. They were all so handsome. “Perhaps they really are God’s chosen people,” I pondered.
I set out down the one street of Bocas wearing a long purple, turquoise, and yellow skirt, and a halter top, with my long blonde hair flowing loosely down my back. “Que Linda” (how pretty) some men said softly as I passed by. I was surprised that they noticed me, because in Latin America far sexier women than I display their cleavage as if they were serving the men a full coarse meal on a platter. Latino men are constantly complimenting the eye-catching bright red bloom of tropical women, but to my surprise they equally complimented the far subtler wildflower blossom of the North American woman.
As I walked down the street I heard locals from black Caribbean decent and Latino descent speaking Spanish, English, and Gauri Gauri (the local Creole language of Bocas Del Toro).
To get to the public beach I walked past the main drag, past the grass field that is used for small incoming planes and for local boys as a football field, past the worn-down pastel colored wooden shacks, and past a cemetery with a white washed archway and cross. I reached the white sand beaches where only one other North American couple, and a few local kids were playing in the waves. I jumped into the waves and swam around a bit. After splashing around in the waves a bit, I got out, laid back on a log, and relaxed. A young Caribbean man with black skin, defined muscles, and dread locks was staring out at the ocean just down the beach from me, lingering about. I must have looked like a cliché to him; young single woman traveling alone, and lonely for some young dark surfer. I ignored his attention, and he finally gave up and walked away.
Living here in the tropics, I’ve seen a constant influx of North American women that come here and fulfill their fleeting beach fantasies with young local surfers. It becomes a routine for the local boys. I imagine them showering on a Saturday afternoon, splashing some cologne on, and readying themselves for a night of dancing and sex with yet another starry-eyed tourist. Seeing the routine of it all makes me avoid contact with the tropical beach boys.
I walked back to Las Olas to wash off the sand and salt water. That night I asked the tan-skinned Israeli at reception for an early morning wake up call. “Sure” he said glancing into my eyes. We looked at each other in silence for a moment, a nice moment of casual intimacy. He said goodnight in a soft voice, and I went back to my room alone, thinkng that maybe I wasn’t the only one sleeping in this hotel wishing for the comfort of having someone beside me.
Early the next morning I boarded a skiff with a full load of tourists from North American, Panama, England and Australia. We skipped over the smooth morning ocean toward the mainland, and in silence we said our good-byes to the islands of Bocas Del Toro as they faded behind us.
The only romance that had transpired on Bocas Del Toro was a love affair with the shining turquoise water, the sun warming and caressing my skin as I lie on the beach, and the passion of fantasy with the olive-skinned men in Las Olas, (The Waves).
Transportation, Resorts, Retirement, and links to other information for Bocas Del Toro:
· For information on how to travel to Bocas Del Toro from San Jose, Costa Rica or from Panama City, go to http://www.bocas.com/.
· For information about traveling to Bocas Del Toro and living in Panama I recommend, http://www.escapeartist.com/Isla_Solarte
· For information about Bocas Del Toro on everything from resorts, to real estate to local flights I recommend looking at http://www.panamainfo.com/en/article/destinations/69/
· The Lonely Planet guide to Costa Rica or Panama has detailed information on different forms of transportation to Bocas Del Toro and low budget to mid budget options for hotels.
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