Preface: I now describe myself as an experienced world traveler. I was not, however, in 2008. This story — adapted from an old travel journal of mine — not only helps me to smile ironically upon my innocence and stupidity as a 20-year old, but also proves to me how necessary it is to have hope and faith in this world, in whatever form is best for you. This story is written in a very informal matter, but also filled to the brim with LOL moments of naivety and a tendency towards exaggeration that only a white girl could produce… but those things just makes a good story, in my opinion.

The weekend I spent in Bocas del Toro, Panama, was perhaps the worst experience of my life. But, a la Tale of Two Cities, it was also the best. Let me just say: I almost died. And this is no joke, folks. If you think I am kidding, there are these 4 other ladies who can vouch for me, because their lives were almost cut a little short as well. I wish I could convince you that I’m not exaggerating, but it’s hard to imagine without actually being in our shoes. Although… that might be a little difficult, since this whole story takes place barefoot.

Let me start our story with a factual explanation of our vacation adventure. On a Thursday night, the 5 main ladies of this story (myself, Brittney, Amelia, Amanda, and Renee’ — all friends through a study abroad program in Costa Rica) barely caught a bus out of San José (Costa Rican capital) to Limón (a coastal town), where we stayed the night in the sketchiest of sketchy hotels. My only memory from that night is spooning with Amanda, so overall it was a relatively successful night. We woke up and set out for a 8 am bus to Sixaola, the Costa Rican border town. From there we crossed the border into Panama without much excitement… it was very hot and the bridge we crossed was very metaphorical. We took another bus to Changuinola, and then a taxi to the water taxi docks. We had to wait a couple hours for the next water taxi out to the islands, so we hung out with some local kids (adorable, obviously) and complained about Latin American transportation like a bunch of wusses. When we arrived at the island archipelago of Bocas del Toro, after a very fun water taxi ride, we found out that the hostel we wanted to stay at on Isla Carenaro was completely full. Our water taxi driver said that his family owned a hostel on Isla Bastimento and that he would give us “a good price.” We were told that Bastimento was a fabulous place from two other Americans on the boat, so we decided to check it out.

Isla Bastimento is definitely the least touristy island of the bunch. We stayed at a charming hostel, and were surprisingly the only ones there. We had A/C (wow, was it hot) and the owner was an unbelievably sweet woman with whom we instantly felt at home. We decided to tour the island, and were able to walk the entire length in about 15 minutes. The locals spoke English, Spanish, Creole, and as we liked to call it: Spanglisheole. It was hard to understand them when they were talking amongst themselves, but almost everyone knew English. Another oddity for us: in Panama they used the American dollar… we were all so used to handling colones, the Costa Rican currency, that we found ourselves fumbling with our native money. We found a restaurant (and by “found” I mean there was only one restaurant on the island) that served American and Creole food. It was owned by a very lanky Canadian man who was missing part of his index finger. He showed us his “catch of the day”: was a giant crab, about 3 feet long. We ate there for dinner, and then hit up a mini super where I found Night Train Express: The most fruity bottle of bum wine (17,5% alcohol) at the bargain price of $3.95!

The next morning we ate at the Red Rooster again (man, this island was small), and then headed out to Playa Bastimento, a supposedly beautiful beach that was only a “quick 15 minute walk” across the island.

And here begins our main story:

We were going to a beach. Obviously this means that we were dressed in bikinis, cutesy cover-ups, and flip flops, each with one water bottle and a bag of PB&J sandwiches for the 5 of us. We walked to where the trail was supposed to begin, and trekked up some stairs that led to a cemetary. Oh cool, we thought, the path leads us through a cemetery: how local. We didn’t really have any second thoughts at that point because there was still a path to follow. If there’s a path, it must be right! It’s a very steep path, but that’s not going to stop us! We want beach! We want beach! We made it to the bottom and attempted to cross a little river of mucky water on a slippery piece of wood that had been placed across it. It was here when two key things happened: 1) We fell into quicksand, and 2) there was no turning back. Brittney lost both of her flip flops after a misstep, and I fell into the quicksand-like mud up to just below my knee. Since it really was like quicksand, the only way I could get my leg out of it was to let go of my flip flop (nooooo!), which I was not about to do because it was the only pair of shoes I had brought with me. Brittney and Amelia tried to anchor themselves against a tree to pull me out. And finally, out popped my leg, covered in muck. I immediately reached both arms into the depths, up to my bicep, to find my beloved flip flop. After some tugging and bemoaning, it popped up, completely covered in muck as well. I wanted to clean myself off a little, but I wasn’t going to get any cleaner. Everyone else barely made it across, but again, we thought nothing of our situation. Maybe the path wasn’t kept up because there weren’t a lot of tourists on this island? We must look forward.

After about a half hour, we lost the trail. Wait, is that another path? Sure, why not. We trekked forward. After about an hour, we started to panic. Realization: No real path, no bread crumbs left behind, impassable vegetation ahead. And then… BAM! I walked smack into a spider web. Oh, but this was no ordinary eensy weensy spider… it was a big old yellow banana spider. The ones that are poisonous. Of course, I started to panic and scream, which in turn made everyone else scream, and we were just a bunch of screaming fools who had just gotten lost in the rainforest of a Panamanian island (don’t you see the humor in the situation?). These spiders kept appearing everywhere, and we were forced to find ways around them because we weren’t about to bother them (sassy snap included). We desperately tried to walk toward the sound of the ocean, which seemed to be everywhere considering we were on an island, and because the trees were so thick we couldn’t even see the direction of the sun.

Finally, we hit a dead end. The “path” ended and the flora was so thick, we physically could not get through without some major machete work. And that is where I had an asthma attack. Mind you, the only times I have ever had similar attacks were due to exercise or sudden changes in weather. This is the only time IN MY LIFE where my lungs were closing due to pure fear. Luckily for me (and my travelmates), I had stuffed my inhaler into my camera bag at the last minute. I took a couple puffs, and decided that I had to wrap my head around the situation. Let’s make a list. 1) We were hopelessly lost. 2) We couldn’t go forward. 3) I had to keep spirits up and at least pretend that everything would be alright because where will panicking get us? 4) Let’s turn around and go back? Amelia started to turn around and we desperately tried to find the direction and paths we had taken. But lo and behold, we couldn’t find where we had come from. Balls. Now we were really lost. We kept finding little pathways here and there, I’m sure made by jaguars or whatever large jungle animals I imagined to be lurking nearby, but we took them, and soon we came across barbed wire… which meant Civilization. Boy, were we mistaken. Brittney was not happy (understatement) when we came across a sign in the middle of the Panamanian jungle: “Private Property of the Tom Family. Bought in the year 1987. Please don’t touch what isn’t yours.” Oh, sweet irony. Supposedly this land, in which we were hopelessly lost, belonged to someone who could have probably led us to safety. But because this mysterious Tom Family did not come to our immediate rescue, we had to “touch what wasn’t ours” in hopes that we might come across someone who could help us. (Notice the Nazi symbol in the photo of the sign above… My reaction: “Renee’, you go first. You look the most Aryan.”)

But no. No help ahead. We came across a swamp. Or better yet, a marsh. No, an old, flooded sugar cane field. And do you know what that means? LOTS OF WATER. Every step we took, we sunk all the way to our knees. There were probably plenty of snakes in the mix, but let’s just lie to ourselves for the moment and pretend they didn’t exist. At that point, we thought we might be getting closer because the ocean seemd to be getting louder and louder, but hallucinations seemed equally plausible. Continuing on through the obstacles of this jungle, Renee’ and I stepped on an ant hill… a RED ant hill, of course, and again starting screaming. When those little guys bite you, they bite hard and sting hard. I cried a little, and figured that this was where I was going to die.

And that’s when something amazing happened. I started to pray. Now, you know me (do you know me?). I’m Catholic, but not religious. I go to church at home, but out of obligation and respect for my mom. But right then and there, 4 hours into our “trip to the beach,” I started to pray to God, whatever that meant. I just begged the heavens to get us out of this situation, that these girls needed my help, I needed their help, We Needed Help. I was crying my eyes out, pleading for forgiveness for swearing at God’s beautiful nature that seemed to be plotting against me. I felt and saw that a spider had bit me, and in the moment of inital shock, I bargained,

“OK! I’LL GO TO CHURCH EVERY SUNDAY!”

And then I saw something blue. I was looking at the ocean.

After everyone came out of the forest, sobbing, praying, laughing, we realized that we had finally made it to Playa Bastimento, the most beautiful beach I have ever seen in my life. We were bleeding, sweating, crying, stinging, an overdose of feelings, but we had arrived. We stripped down to our bathing suits and ran straight for the ocean. I have never been so happy to swallow so much sea water. I don’t know how we made it out of there with nothing more than some scratches, bug bites, and thorns in our feet, but we did. I am so grateful that no one seriously hurt themselves, and so far no one has had symptoms of malaria or whatever diseases were teaming in those marsh waters. We had a grand old time at that beach, playing and goofing around and just giving thanks that destiny somehow had pity on us.

Cherry on top: There was a police officer at the beach and he politely informed us that the path that we should have taken was about 2 seconds from where we had exited the forest. Of course it was. We stayed at the beach for a long time, ate a little lunch, and then headed back on the real path which, guess what, took about 15 minutes! We felt defeated. We took showers and tended to our wounds, physical and mental. We had a very relaxing and reflective night, and made a pact that the next day we would take a GUIDED tour instead of making (and failing) one by ourselves.

Lessons:

- Friends keep you sane. Friends give you hope. Friends are the only thing that gets us through in life.

- Always go on guided tours when in new places, especially in a jungle.

- Have faith. Whatever that means to you, just have faith.