In the morning Walter wanted to show me some property but I insisted that I was going to pursue this systematically, locating properties and plotting visits so as to minimize time and gas. A while later Walter told me he knew of eight hectare at Split Hill that was available for $80k. He summoned Pablo, the house boat captain. Finding the real estate boat not in fit order we took off in Stephen's boat, with Stephen and spent five hours on the water or exploring property.
It took an hour to reach the first property at Split Hill. Arriving at the property we could not discern any hint of a dock on the western side among the mangroves. We cruised around the point to approach the property from the other side. The term “dock” was very generously employed in describing the rough hewn planks precariously straddling the poles stuck in the mud. This terminated at some dimensional one by tens that straddled four by fours, all hand cut by chain saws. The planks gave way, I supported myself on poles stuck in the mud. We ascended a small rise with a great view of Chiriqui Bay and the mountains on the mainland. The rest of the property was brackish swamp or rises with views solely of the higher surrounding rises. We encountered a giant orb spider at least four inches across the leg spread, directly subsequently Walter picked up a stick waving it in front of him up and down and in diagonal sweeps in exaggerated motions that are the essence of his physical expressiveness.
The far side lead down into a bog of cypress that indicate that this side of the island is an altar on which humans are sacrificed to the pernicious beasts known as chitra or sand flies. We returned to the boat and headed to another finca, even more remote which was started as a rustic resort by a woman who has since walked the trail to the destination at which all trails converge. We injudiciously walked the overgrown trails without a machete, stomping heavily to forewarn the irascible serpent the frequents the lowlands, the deservedly greatly feared fer-de-lance. I wasn't hot on this spot either.
Proceeding still further we arrived at the dock at a property next to a property formerly occupied by Wild Bill a serial killer from the states who befriended expatriates, killed them, buried them on in the yard and claimed their property as his. This was not the most well thought out of operations but was seldom surpassed in the wantonness and evil with with it was executed. A dog barked at the end of the dock. Walter called out to the caretaker and we tied off. A large expanse of hill was planted with a wide variety of tropical fruit trees. Half way up a simple rectangular wooden two story house looked down over the lush lawn and fruit trays and across the bay to the mountains overlooking the blue waters of Chiriqui Grande. At night the strip of water through which we had just passed a lucky boater might chance to see a jaguar on its way to the fertile hunting grounds of Isla Popa. The jaguar is the third largest cat and has the most powerful bite. Their jaws readily crack the shells of giant sea turtles.
While the rest of the party stayed at the house I went down the trail through the densest jungle I have seen in Central America. The property climbs over the hill and descends again to the waters of Dolphin Bay. On the dolphin bay side, Bocas Town is half an hour away, on the side from which we approached it it an hour's travel. We had an over an hours journey through some occasionally very shallow water populated with the little cayucas and Pablo was anxious to return before we lost light.
After returning we attempted to eat at Gringo's, the Mexican restaurant of choice. As we drove by many people called out to Walter, “Hey.” “Stop in.” etc. At 7:30 the owner decided he was done for the day so we dined elsewhere. I returned to Casa Verde and caught up on my emails.
