Day 4
We came to Santa Fe to get out doors. It seemed the area had a lot to offer in terms of accessible hiking and waterfalls. No guide necessary. We rose early to go on a big hike up Cerro Tute, a nearby peak (or really big hill). According to our guide book, the trail head was just down the road from us. We headed down the hill for about fifteen or twenty minutes where we saw a sign that indicated that Cerro Tute was just up this steep road to the right.
The paved and eventually dirt road wound upward through a landscape of farmland, pastures and a few luxurious country homes. The forest that the guide book had promised was nowhere to be seen, but we kept trudging up the increasingly steep country road. After an hour or so we stopped at an abandoned roadside food stall to eat our bad sandwiches (white bread, mayonnaise and a very plasticky cheese that seemed shelf stable) and cassava chips. After another hour of steep climbing we considered giving up. While the views were getting better we saw no jungle or forest in sight, nor could we see the summit. Eventually we turned around, fairly disappointed, and headed back down the mountain. We found out later that most people rent a car or get a taxi to drive up to around where we gave up and start the hike from there because eventually there IS a trail up there to the top.
Back on the main road we saw a sign for a swimming hole, so we followed a rutted road down to the Santa Maria River. It would have been nice to cool off, but the bank was a messy quagmire and the river looked brown and unappetizing.
Crossing a bridge to the swampy swimming hole
We headed back to town where the local artisanal market was taking place. It was small, but featured some cool, woven bags and hats plus a homemade mosquito repellent made of a tightly wrapped bundle of banana leaves (and other things I assume) that you burn. In my nascent quest to try as many different fruits in Panama as possible, I bought a bunch of yellow rambutans. Outside the market, we took advantage of a raspado (shaved ice) vendor to cool ourselves off. I got a mix of grape and nance (another new fruit!) and Lise got strawberry and nance.
We headed north of town toward a known swimming spot on the Santa Maria River. We had heard that there was the possibility to rent a tube and float down, but we didn’t see any sign of this. Still, the river was clear and looked pretty refreshing after all the walking we had been doing. It wasn’t unlike the mountain rivers I grew up around in Idaho.
We were alone for a while while we swam in the river, but eventually two Panamanians, a man and a woman, arrived to take a dip too. It started to drizzle a bit, but it didn’t really matter as it was still pretty warm outside. Getting a bit bored and curious, I decided to wade across the river to see what was going on on the other side. As I reached the shore, where there was a small beach that led to a trail into the brush, I heard a voice from across the river. It was Lise. I couldn’t tell what she was saying to me, but the Panamanian man was gesturing wildly for me to come back. I looked at the river and noticed it was rapidly swelling. Half the beach I was on was already submerged and the river was starting to rush. What I had experienced as a mere drizzle was causing a flash flood as all the water in the valley was flowing into this once modest and calm stream.
I made a split second decision to cross, knowing if I wanted any longer, I’d be trapped. I ran and dove into the river and started to paddle. I’m not a strong swimmer, but I know the basics. I could feel the river pulling me downstream quickly. As I paddled, kicked and splashed around in a panic, I saw Lise save our bags from being submerged in the nick of time. As the water rose, the bank of the river grew farther away. I paddled as hard as I could and I reached the other side, where the man was standing with his arm out at the farthest downstream point that he could. I could touch the bottom now, and the man helped me out of the river. If I had jumped in a second or two later, I don’t know what would have happened. I definitely would have gone VERY far down stream, definitely would have been injured, possibly drowned.
I thanked the man for helping me and we got to chatting. He was a police officer named Mario from Santiago, and he and his fellow officer had come up to Santa Fe for the weekend for a birthday party. The woman didn’t speak at all during this conversation and I suspected that they were perhaps more than colleagues, or maybe that she wasn’t really a police officer. When I had asked her name, Mario had paused and stuttered “Margarita” and it seemed like either he had forgotten her name or he was trying to make something up. When I asked what she does, he said she was a cop who works on a motorcycle for an agency like the FBI. It didn’t really make sense, but I didn’t really care.
We went back to town and decided that since we had semi-failed two adventures that day, we would go for a third one. Our guidebook was thin on info, but there was supposed to be a waterfall accessible by public transport and a short hike. On most maps, Santa Fe appeared to be the end of the road heading north toward the Caribbean. However, there were definitely rough dirt roads that snaked farther up into the mountains to reach rural, indigenous communities. Recently, however, one of the roads was paved. We grabbed a minibus heading north (or something like that). and the driver was really taking advantage of the fresh pavement. It was rainy, misty and green everywhere. The driver stopped at a spot where the road crossed a river and told us this was the stop for the waterfall. Lise had looked it up on Google Maps though and didn’t recognize this spot as the trailhead. So we insisted on continuing. A few minutes later someone else in the bus said THIS was the spot. So we got out. There was a sign for the waterfalls, but the trail was unclear. We found something of a path and followed it until it quickly petered out and ran into a fence. We saw a nearby wooden home built on stilts. Several family members were hanging out under the home and on the porch. I approached, greeting them loudly from afar so I didn’t startle anyone with my presence. They seemed amused by us and I explained that we were looking for the waterfall. They sent a small boy to show us the way. He led us back to the road and back the way we had come. I tried to make conversation with him, but he barely spoke any Spanish (the family was from one of Panama’s many indigenous communities). He wasn’t shy though. When we got to the trailhead, which was at the spot where the bus had first tried to drop us off, he told us the entrance was $5 each. We knew this was a swindle and felt kind of disappointed that this is what it had come to. It was especially surprising as this area was not overrun with tourists at all, the kind of situation that will make a lot of people trade hospitality for opportunism. When we refused, he negotiated, saying if he comes with us it is only $2. We told him that he was free to go and we would take the risk of punishment for not paying. He kind of wandered around, dithering, trying to figure out another means to make us pay him, but he soon gave up and headed back home.
Lise waiting for the bus in the rain
Within minutes of ascending the trail, it was clear that we were not going to have a nice nice pool at the bottom of a waterfall to swim in. The rain was pouring harder and the river next to the trail was getting more and more intense. The surrounding jungle was beautiful, though and the atmosphere was enough for us. About ten minutes up the trail, the river had swollen to the point that it was now flowing over the banks and blocking the trail. We went back to the bottom of the trail and found another path on the other side of the river. The path was rougher and and after ten minutes we found ourselves just clambering up through brush and mud. The trail was gone and we were just trudging up the side of a forested hill. Once it got too steep and, honestly, a bit dangerous, we headed back down. It was another semi-failure, but it was fun anyway.
Back in town, it was time to figure out dinner. We had noticed that the few tourists in town all seemed to go to one specific restaurant called The Herbolarium. Normally we would avoid the places intended for tourists, but they did advertise a very cheap “Menu Ejecutivo”, which is like a multi-course set menu.
The woman who served us was a remarkably genial middle-aged woman with some kind of handicap that made it look laborious for her to walk around. The atmosphere was homey and warm. The food had the same vibe. It wasn’t necessarily Panamanian food, but I would also say that it wasn’t NOT Panamanian food either. The fare was simple, comforting and very well-made. There was a chicken noodle soup with homemade noodles, a small piece of meat, mashed potatoes and a cheesy bread, baked in the oven. As we ate, a middle-aged white man who had been meandering around the restaurant stopped by our table and started chatting. It turned out that he was the owner and had retired here a few years earlier. Henrik, from Denmark, wasn’t a trained chef and didn’t really have restaurant experience. He had a lot of passion about food. He was talking about all the little food adventures he was on and how rich the produce of the region was. He pointed out the oven sheet of roasted (I might say burnt, but hey, not my kitchen) cacao beans that he was playing around with. He reveled in the monotony of rural life and the freedom it gave him. I noticed a bowl of fruit that contained a noni, an obscure and in most circumstances, never-eaten fruit. I had seen it once in a forest in Nicaragua and it smelled, honestly, like a fart. I was under the impression that this wasn’t really something that was consumed. In fact, according to wikipedia, it is considered a “famine food” in most places where it grows, though it is eaten in some parts of Southeast Asia and the South Pacific. I was very curious what he was doing with it, so I asked him. He got very excited and said he was going to show us. Henrik disappeared into the kitchen. After a few minutes of clanging and whirring noises, he returned with a small dish of what looked like a loose ricotta and a few pieces of grilled bread. He said he wasn’t sure if I would appreciate this, but Lise, a French person would probably like it. We spread the funky smelling stuff on our toasts. It was rich and cheesy. “Roquefort”, Henrik exclaimed, “doesn’t it taste like Roquefort?” He reminded me of Willy Wonka proudly revealing that the schnozzberries taste like schnozzberries. It was very delicious and had a striking similarity to blue cheese, however, I’m not sure if I would go as far as calling it a substitute for Roquefort. He was very excited, especially about the fact that he seemed to have discovered a vegan blue cheese. I would have been too if I had come up with something so delicious from a fruit that most people wouldn’t consider consuming.
That night, the frogs outside our room sounded like vintage flying saucer sound effects.
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