Playa Gorgona, Panama

Getting There

Sometimes the best and worst part of any journey is getting to where you are going. I needed to get out of Panama City. The noise, the traffic, the smog, everything about big cities rubs me the wrong way after a few days. I picked a random beach on a big map of Panama and hoped for the best. All buses leave from the Albrook bus terminal, a cluster of honking beasts driving every which way. I asked around for a bus to Playa Gorgona, not entirely sure how to pronounce the word. I kept repeating it as gorgonzola (as in the cheese), but after a couple of tries a woman finally understood me and directed me to the Chame window. I bought a ticket and was aimed towards an exit. I left the building to find a mini-bus with Chame written in gangster letters across the windshield. I entered, weary that there was no driver to ask about the destination of the bus while the other passengers were throwing me unaccommodating hairy eyeballs.

As soon as I arranged myself for the trip my traveling companion got antsy. We were due back in Costa Rica in a couple of days and needed to buy tickets in advance. He kept mumbling something about this in an inaudible level, complaining, but not fully enunciating his concerns. After a few minutes of passive aggressive prodding and annoyed looks I gave up and agreed about buying the tickets in advance. We jumped off the bus and headed towards the turnstiles. The driver’s assistant from our bus cut us off, looking very worried. “Where are you going? What happened?”

I tried explaining in my rushed, broken Spanish, but he did not seem to understand. Time was burning short, so I broke through the barrier leaving him looking confused.

(Staring at the Sea in Panama)

I made it to the ticket window, huffing and puffing. Although I appeared obviously rushed, the ticket vendor took her dear old time in the transaction. Nothing goes fast in the tropics. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time spent typing I decided to run back to our Chame bus to stall the driver while my companion waits for the ticket vendor to examine our passports and do some more typing. Breathless I returned to the bus just as our rotund driver was hobbling out of the station. Once again I attempted to explicate my situation to no avail. I am faced with more confused looks from both assistant and driver. I told them to wait, and the rotund driver shook a couple of chins and plopped into his seat.

Finally my companion jogged back, and we stepped into the crowded bus. I threw open a jumpseat and plunked down. I am suddenly aware that I am sweating profusely and am all too conscious of the ripe smell of my damp body. The chica next to me smiled shyly and aimed the air conditioner vent towards me. Is this for my sake or hers?

The ride is only about 60 kilometers from Panama City but within 10 minutes I am unbearably uncomfortable. I am smooshed between two people, my legs halfway cramped into the front seat and halfway over the center console. The bar is in the seat back is digging into my spine. Most treacherous of all, the bus is looping around precariously sharp bends at very high velocities. I have absolutely nothing to hold onto for balance and risk falling out of my seat at every curve. As we buck left my seat threatens to fold up with me still inside, and when we veer right it takes all my strength not to topple into the driver’s lap.

My pain is finally relieved as our driver drops us on the side of highway, pointing down a dirt road. Lately I have had a bought of rough journeys to the beach, and this is turning out to be no exception. Wade and I buy a couple of oranges and ask the Chinese shop owner how to get to the beach. Through her accent I understand that the playa is “cercita,” very close. I began walking around midday as the hot tropical sun beat on me as if I were roadkill on the pavement. The extreme humidity allowed no reprieve to profusely sweating. On foot, almost an hour later we arrived at another convenient store. I stumbled in to again ask the cashier for directions. I received the same reply as before, “cercita.” I am starting not to trust this “ita” business. It sounds like an excuse to say yes to everything.

(WAlking Man sign, I was in for a walk)

Another half hour of staggering in the sweltering heat and somehow we arrived at the beach. The black volcanic sand sparkled like diamonds strewn on the ground and the green waves calmly rolled over the unpopulated shoreline. I stripped to my bathing suit and plunged into the water. Nothing could feel better than the cool Pacific Ocean after such a sweaty adventure. Secluded beaches are empty for a reason: access is difficult.