Page 1 of The Hitchhiker in Panama
One
My cabdriver was trying to abandon me in the jungles of Panama.
Or at least that was what I thought when I woke up.
“Señorita, estamos aquí.”
I lifted my head and blinked lazily out the rear passenger-side window. When the view didn’t make sense, I blinked harder and rubbed my eyes, trying to forestall panic.
There was nothing but jungle. I’d been traveling for nearly forty hours: three flights beginning in my native Sydney, a nap in a hostel, a train, and now my taxi was trying to dump me in the middle of the Panamanian jungle.
“Oh no,” I murmured.
“Señorita.” My driver pointed out the other side of the car.
There was my hotel, a small concrete building with a sign that read “Hotel & Marina.” I grinned sheepishly at him through the rearview mirror and mumbled “Gracias” as I opened the door and climbed out. He waited while I grabbed both of my backpacks from the trunk, and as soon as I shut the door, he was bumping down the gravel road again.
I stared up at the building, my stomach a jumble of emotions. Planning this trip had seemed so easy: with a click or a scroll of my mouse, I could be in Buenos Aires, Svalbard, or Thailand. Now, with the actual adventure staring me in the face, I was terrified.
Hola. Me llamo Lila Ryan. Tengo reserva de hotel.
Tengo reserva de hotel.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A middle-aged woman sat at the front desk and smiled as I approached and dropped my backpacks down at my feet.
“Hola,” I warbled.“Me llamo Lila Ryan. Tengo . . . tengo res . . .”I blew out a breath of frustration and my cheeks heated.
“Hola, Lila. My name is Paula.” Her English was perfect, with a beautiful accent. My tension faded away and I grinned.
“Hi. Sorry.” I put my hands to my burning cheeks. “My cabdriver didn’t speak any English, and my Spanish is obviously terrible.”
“That is okay. The yachties are mostly English-speakers, so I get a lot of practice.”
While Paula checked me in, we chatted about the marina amenities and my upcoming adventure. The knowledge that I was in the right place and had a bed to sleep in tonight took the pressure off, and with the adrenaline of travel winding down, I was getting sleepy.
“Here.” Paula handed me my room key. “I have upgraded you to marina view instead of jungle view. For inspiration.”
She directed me to the stairs and I climbed, half-heartedly dragging my stuff behind me. I opened the door to my small room and dumped my backpacks on the bed.
The room was expensive, more than I’d budgeted for, but here in the marina there was only one option, and I had to be in the marina.
I poked around the room until I got to the window. Finally I saw what I’d come here for. Below my second-story window, the marina docks extended out into the water and the masts of hundreds of sailboats rose like trees in a forest. The stress of travel, the worries over missed flights and overslept alarms, the words of my mother telling me that taking three months to travel alone on a budget would never work . . . it all washed away.
One of these boats would take me on the first leg of my adventure: through the Panama Canal.
* * *
It was five in the morning and still black outside, but thanks to too much napping, my body was replenished and ready for the day to begin. I dressed, ate a muesli bar, and slipped out of my room, mindful of possible neighbors, and exited the hotel through the back.
I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scents of Panama: the humidity, the salt air, and a refreshing vegetation smell. The marina and hotel were far enough away from the dirty, smoggy city of Colón to avoid the stench, and I could breathe deeply out here.
Paula had assured me the area here was safe and that there were twenty-four-hour security guards, even though the marina was remote. I turned left and walked along the water’s edge on the dock, enjoying the morning stillness. After half an hour of wandering the shore, the darkness began to change. Twilight drew a silhouette on my left, the jungle still steeped in shadows, but the sky was lightening above it.
I avoided walking in the trees, and instead I found an area where sailboats of every shape and size were stored on dry land. It was surreal to see the undersides of the boats, like viewing an iceberg beneath the waterline. The air was deathly still and quiet, as if I’d wandered into a graveyard of steel and fiberglass.
Eventually I made my way back to the docks. The sun glinted over the tops of the masts and all around me people were beginning their day, climbing down from their boats or opening hatches, doing all sorts of boat-life things.
Most of the sailors were older than I was—spry pensioners who gave me a parade of smiles and polite hellos as I walked up and down the docks. I meandered, wondering about each boat and its story.
