Isla Bastimentos, Panama

We had been the sole guests at Al Natural Resort for three nights, but tonight, Martin had set the table for 12. 

Over a glass of rum, he sits with us and talks with our toddler while evening turns to night.  When the chef arrives dressed cleanly and smelling of perfume, I quietly wonder where she came from.  There are no roads here, and I heard no outboard, and no canoe tie up to the dock.  This part of Isla Bastimentos in the Bocas del Toro archipelago of Panama is surrounded by thick forests and mangroves. 

“Martin,” I ask, “did she walk here?”

“Elessa lives in Salt Creek,” Martin says.

“It’s pitch black out there,” I say.  “And isn’t it all mangroves between here and there?  How long is the walk?” I ask.  There is no way she could have walked through the mangroves at night without ending up a muddy mess.

“You know, Erik, these Panama women who grew up in these places, they are different than you and I. It’s about a one hour walk from Salt Creek, but these Panama women, they evolved differently, like they have webs between their feet!” he says, only half-joking.  He stands up and says, “There are sometimes these wooden boards between the mangrove trees, and they just know how to walk across them, like this.” 

And then he stands up and says, “Chick-a, Chick-a, Chick-a” and pretends to skip across tiny boards in the mangroves.  “When I try to walk across the mangroves,” he says, “I have mud up to my knees in five minutes.”

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