I walked down to the central park and ran into a couple of cute young woman. "Is this where you get the collectivo to Boca Drago?" I couldn't think of any other reason they would be sitting there. "I sure hope so, that's where we are off to." The reception wasn't warm, there was no more room on the bench and I took an open seat a couple of benches away and watched the Easter weekend festivities and activities in the park and surrounding areas.
I looked around and the young women were gone. A hundred yards down the street a collectivo, (a mini bus) sat at the curb. I strolled down and saw what appeared to be a full vehicle with a dozen people standing at the curb. The bus conductor informed me that there was more room. I boarded the bus and we quickly took off.
We traveled from Bocas Town, on the south end of Isla Colon through the dirt road in the jungle. Vast areas of verdant hills were cleared as grazing land for cattle, but not one was to be seen. The scenery however was captivating. Twenty to thirty minutes later we pulled into Boca Drago. A hawker in front of a restaurant was gesturing toward the restaurant in front of which we had stopped and offered skewered pineapple slices.
I walked past the guys offering boat rides to "Playa Estrella" which literally translates to "Star Beach" but is generally called "Starfish Beach" by the English speaking. The walk was but a mile or a mile and a half along a narrow white sand beach. The high tide line was strewn with coconuts, palm fronds and driftwood. This is a natural beach, not one of those manicured beaches found in front of resorts. Ten meters from the shore the dense jungle abruptly began. On my right, the waters were crystal clear and quickly turned to a deep blue. For most of the trip the beach was empty except for a few tents erected just above the high tide mark.
Arriving at Playa Estrella, it was obviously a holiday weekend, Donzi's with dual 200 HP outboards and inboard outboards were beached, stern in and the pangas, the most common boat down here were in great abundance. The locals run tours from Bocas Town to various destinations, including "Bird Island" and Playa Estrella is one of the de rigueur stops.
People hung out on the cool beach on the overcast morning, others waded and observed the starfish. A few actually swam. Several hundred meters later the beach gave way to the mangroves. I returned to an empty stretch of beach, shed my fanny pack, hat, boots, and shirt and swam for a while, keeping an eye on my possessions then returned to Boca Drago in water soaked boots further aggravating my feet.
At Boca Drago I took a seat at a restaurant. Waitresses everywhere stood in small groups chatting. I failed to get service then noticed a group enter and approach on of the groups of waitresses and place an order. The last two times I was here I got table service. I approached one waitress and asked for a menu. They were out of the ceviche pulpa, octopus ceviche and settle for the fish ceviche. A short while later my liter and half of bottled water and a small serving of ceviche were delivered. I couldn't find the waitress to pay my tab, so I placed eight bucks under my plate and walked back to the beach. The next collectivo was in a hour, or so I was advised, so I swam some more.
While swimming, I saw the collectivo pull in. I swam to shore, quickly grabbed my clothes and headed down to the collectivo. It was leaving in five minutes, a half an hour before the time I was told. I dressed and took a seat and headed back. I told the driver to stop at the chino on the corner, half a block from my apartment. My neighbor greeted me and invited me over. "Sure, right after I take a shower and wash these clothes." You have to get sea water out of your clothes with at least an industrious rinsing or they will will smell like something died.
I have laundry soap in bar form, which is great for backpacking so you never get powder all over everything and washed my stuff in the kitchen sink and hung it over the fence. The clouds had burned away, these high tech fabrics would be dry in 10 minutes.
My neighbor is an interesting guy. He is in his mid sixties, a black guy who was born in the house across the street from which he lives. He scratches out a living performing a wide variety of tasks. He cleans my apartment for me, he is thee caretaker for this place, a group of four separate single family casitas "little houses", he also repairs bicycles and appliances, sitting outside on the deck in front of his house. I needed another ceviche fix and asked him where the nearest place to buy some was. He popped in his house and returned in thirty seconds with a quart of octopus ceviche. I bought a small container for $1.75 and I must say, it was the finest octopus ceviche I've ever had. We chatted for a bit more.
I grabbed my computer and headed back across town to Casa Verde to do a little work. Women were disappearing into the bathrooms and returning wearing sensual high fashion dresses. What the hell? This is bikini country. A couple of other women started running a nylon line through a folded and sewn edge of a sheet and hung it like a drape on the end of the dock. Oh, fashion show tonight, what will Chester think of next?
After a I while I was holding court with a couple of women from Ethiopia and a guy from Germany. They were heading to Costa Rica and had been told by the house staff that I was the "go to guy" on travel. I discussed the various areas of the country, backing up my descriptions with pictures from my web photos. A big guy walked up and said "Don't believe anything he says." I couldn't place him until he referenced Santa Fe. He was the guy I was going to buy the 40 hectare from until, well, you've read the story. The women went off to shower and Steve and I had a long chat.
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