Have you ever gone for a run and felt like you were unstoppable – like after any given feather-like step you may just continue to rise up above the ground and fly away – but then been all of a sudden jerked back into reality?
    The thin but rounded rim of an ancient volcano in El Valle, Panama made me feel that way. My sandals did the work for me and glided over the rocks interspersed between the mountaintop grasslands as my mind drifted off in a trance induced by the freedom, sweat, and cool mountain air.
    Finally I slid off the edge of the volcano and descended back down the trail we came on, stopping at a waterfall for a cool-off dip.

    (A continuation from Panama, Part I)

    The last night we were to spend on the Kuna Yala Islands proved to be quite enjoyable and eventful. A young Kuna who was planning on soon heading to the mainland to attend college lead us around the thin, dirt alleyways of Carti. After the lone authority on the island, a scowling military policeman, tracked us down to check our passports, we got a full tour of the island in about a half hour. We passed the school, the hospital, the church, and many a hammock-strewn front porch.
    We ended in a large common space inhabited by about 10 young Kuna men who were having a grand old time with several packs of Balboa, one of Panama's prided beers. They welcomed us in - overwhelmed to have visitors to entertain - and supplied us with Balboas. Before we knew it, they were teaching us Kuna, and we were teaching them English, all through the common language of Spanish. It was pretty darn cool. By the end of the night, we were making jokes and laughing like crazy, which was when I really felt like my Spanish was on-point. It felt good.

    The next morning we woke up on the islands in the Atlantic Ocean, planning to be on the Pacific Coast once again in just a few hours. We had our traditional Kuna breakfast - Kuna bread was served accompanied with peanut butter and nutella. We had a bit of a treat though - leftover lobster from last night, and eggs. You know I was all over that.
    We boarded the boat for the last time and headed to the mainland, where we hired a driver from Panama City to take us back to la Ciudad. He proceeded to step on it and drive back up over the steep mountains in  his old, manual transmission Land Rover at 110 km/h while texting and passing other vehicles on the skinny, twisty dirt road.
    I tried to ignore the my gut reaction, which was telling me to either scream or throw up, and instead to enjoy the total beauty of the landscape. After cresting the last ridge among the peaks, we could see the City through the blue of the horizon.


    We made it back to Panama City, found a supermercado, stocked up on some supplies, and while some of the group sat down to eat, Mikey and I went off to find out if we could catch a bus west. We spoke with a man in a ticket booth in the main bus station, and all of a sudden we were being rushed off to a bus - the crew that was eating chasing after Mikey and me lest we get split apart in a place where we had no access to cell phones and a general sense of direction. Our bags were thrown atop the roof of a nice looking white minivan/bus. After travelling on the Diablos Rojos, we were excited to have a respectable bus to travel on to our next destination. Then, the doors opened....
    People almost spilled out of the bus due to overcrowding. Nonetheless, we were ushered onto the bus, squeezing in between the seats and next to the driver, and off we went.

    Little did we know that this experience would parallel our experiences throughout the rest of Panama, and that Panama has a bus system that FAR, FAR exceeds the utility and ease of the U.S. bus systems. Almost literally the entire country can be accessed via bus in a reasonable amount of time (it helps that the country is only about the size of South Carolina). All one needs to do to get to the next town is to stop on a roadside, and a bus will stop (no matter where you are) within a few minutes to pick you up. If the bus is not going where you desire, they will give you instructions for which bus to catch to get there.
    The man who had thrown our bags on top of the bus was the bus helper - one of them rode on every bus and collected the money so that the driver did not have to worry about it. It makes the system very easy, and bus fares were usually in the range of a few quarters.

    We crossed La Puenta de las Americas and after about an hour of driving, the driver told us we were at Campana. There was a slight misunderstanding, as we had wanted to go to Altos de Campana - a not-so-popular mountainous national park - instead of to the town of Campana. I don't think a whole bunch of people understood that we actually wanted to go to some of the highest, most remote spots in the country for enjoyment.
    Anyway, we determined that we were "only 15 km" from Altos de Campana (a distance that Mikey seems to think is like a stroll in the park, probably since she can cover the entire thing at a 6 minute mile pace without blinking an eye). So - what did we do? Started hiking along the Interamericana - the highway that runs from Panama City to Mexico and is actually a part of the larger Pan-American highway, which runs from Prudhoe Bay, AK (another place that I have been!) to Ushuaia, Argentina.

    We were honked at the ENTIRE time as we hiked - we came to find out that this was simply what Panamanians do to say "Hey, do you want a ride?" Eventually, we reached our turnoff and started up a WICKEDLY steep ascent! I mean, damn! I think even Mikey broke a sweat! (did I mention Panama is hot in the summer? Like... REALLY hot)
    Luckily, a few minutes later, we were being honked at... a bus was headed up to Altos de Campana! They picked us up, gratis, and we climbed and climbed up a twisting road through what I can only describe as 'The Land Before Time.'

    We arrived at the ANAM Ranger Station, where the main park ranger and his intern sidekick gave us directions to a good campsite. We hiked up the road for a bit and turned off onto a red clay path, only to be caught by the intern. He seemed to think we would get lost, so he had come to lead us to the site. Indeed, we would have gotten lost, as the path was not as simple as they had made it seem, and it was growing darker by the minute.
    We eventually made it to our campsite, thanked the intern for catching us, and started to set up camp and strip off our clothes that were totally soaked in sweat in favor of something drier that we could sleep in. (little did we know that we would be sweating profusely even while sleeping in the Panama heat. We made a meal ... the first of many of it's kind. White rice, lentils, cans of tuna, and chocolate. mmmmm

    In the morning, we got up, determined to hike long distances. And hike we did. We followed an intense clay jungle trail up and up until we reached the top of some peak from which we could see.... well... nothing but jungle. We were still covered by the thick trees and leaves. There were a heck of a lot of interesting and cool plants to check out, though.

    After hiking for most of the day and not finding the trail that we hoped would take us from the park to another town - El Valle de Anton - in 3 or 4 days of good hiking, we decided to just try to take a bus to the little mountain town.
    We hiked the road back into a tiny town called Chico, on the way finding a few good vistas that we could actually get a view from.
    We chatted with an old lady who owned and worked at a cafe until the bus came by and picked us up, and like a whirlwind we were off again.

    "Peligrosooo!" and old, dark skinned Panamanian drunk yelled out to me as I walked down a half-rejuvinated cobblestone street. A young man approached our group of gringos and echoed the same: "No es seguro pasado aquí ."  The drunk turned back to me again and made the motion of a knife being stabbed into my stomach.
    My group and I were in Casco Viejo in la Ciudad de Panama - the jumping off point for my month-long exploration of the Republic of Panama.
    We decided to turn back the other way and get to bed early, before the sun went down. We did a quick loop of the market square and threw together a dinner from items bargained from street vendors - a coconut, green beans, mangoes, guanabana, and some chicken, white rice, and cow stomach from a local carneria.

    Casco Viejo is an old, crumbling part of the city that had been abandoned and turned into slums years ago, but that is now experiencing a major cultural revival. Artists, architects, and those wishing to profit off the tourist industry are fixing up the abandoned concrete shells devoid of anything but a family, a T.V., and a couch that have been used and lived in by people who have nothing else, and restaurants and bars are popping up on every corner. A huge market square area is still rich in Central American traditions - vendors sell everything from cocos to mangoes to pescado from carts that they drag through the streets, and people roam up and down the square in large masses picking up groceries and hopping on Diablos Rojos - buses that appear as if they were stolen from the public school system, had mufflers installed, and were painted in crazy colors. Almost no one speaks English (though our basic, broken Spanish is enough to get by), dogs roam the streets, military personnel in old fashioned red berets and black suits patrol the corners, and the people are all friendly.

    To the West, you can see La Puerta de las Americas - the bridge of the Americas - crossing over the Panama Canal. Beyond lie dense green forests covered in clouds. To the East, the towering buildings of La Ciudad de Panama are visible across the small bay.

    We explored the city a bit more the next day, first taking a taxi that weaved in and out of traffic at high speeds and displayed better driving than most Americans to the main bus station. Next, we took a Diablo Rojo  to Miraflores Locks, where we viewed an alligator swimming in the canal, and watched a massive ship pass through the wonder of engineering that is the Panama Canal.

    We got to bed in Casco Viejo early once again, not only because we weren't too interested in staying out after dark, but because we planned to leave at 4 in the morning with a 4x4 carro to go to Kuna Yala, an indigenous region along the Atlantic Coast of Panama with over 400 islands, some the size of a small house.
    Because of the remoteness of the location, we had contacted Germain of Cartí island to bring us out. I had spoken with him several times via spanish email, and once by phone, but we still did not know if he himself would be picking us up. It turned out that our 4x4 ride was simply somebody he hired to come pick us up.

    The ride was dark for a good amount of time, but conversation flowed surprisingly smoothly between us, practicing our Spanish, and the driver, practicing his English. The landscape soon lit up with the rising sun, changing from shades of grey to every color of green. We were well into the middle of a tropical rainforest.

    Suddenly, the truck made a sharp left turn, and we began to ascend what must have been a 25% grade. We wiggled up and up into the mountains, my ears popping several times, and began to bob up and down among the rainforest mountain peaks. The road got worse and worse - alternating between sections of pavement and large dropoffs of pure dirt and mud.
    We eventually reached the Kuna Yala border, where we had our passports checked before entering the region. From that point, we began to descend down steep slopes to the Atlantic Ocean. From the Pacific to Atlantic had taken us about four hours ... and a lot of elevation.
    We arrived at the port of Cartí, where a short, very stout dark skinned Kuna introduced himself: "tú debes ser Marshall - me llamo Germain, beinvenidos". He lead our group of severely confused gringos around the port for a while as we got our stamps and paperwork done (which basically consisted of paying a few dollars) and he got the boats ready.
    Once getting on the boats, however, everything became pure bliss. We shot out into a sea of crystal-clear blue waters and pristine white sand beaches. Eventually, we made it to the island of Cartí - the biggest and most populated island in Kuna Yala, which can be circumnavigated on foot in about 30 minutes. The island had not an inch of open space on its shoreline - EVERYTHING was consumed by the myriad of types of hand-constructed docks. On the island itself, small corrugated tin roofs were held up by wooden stakes to make wall-less shelters, and narrow dirt alleyways lead the way between each of the shelters. Underneath the shelters, Kuna women swung in hammocks strung between the wooden stakes and sewed. A few of the larger shelters had real walls, making them more resemble houses, and Germain's house was constructed with heavy stakes and included an upstairs, complete with two hammocks and a few beds where we would stay.

  Life on the Kuna islands is pretty darn good. For three days we would wake up in our hammocks, the Sun rising and roosters crowing, and head downstairs to have breakfast with the Kuna family. Breakfast consisted of 'Kuna bread', basically just long loafs of bread, and peanut butter or butter to spread. This is the most non-traditional meal of the Kuna people, bread being introduced to them much later in their long history.
    After eating, we would head out on the boats to various islands. Most of the Kuna work during this time - the women sew and men usually either go fishing for dinner or, for the few like Germain who have decided to profit on the tourist industry, drive tourists around entertaining them. As tourists, all we did during this time was play on beautiful beaches, free dive, and have intense beach olympics.

    Late in the day, we would have dinner - certainly the most traditional of the Kuna meals. It consisted of whatever the day's catch was. Most of the time it consisted of lobster and fish, though a few times we also captured some conch and fried them up.
    After dinner, there was usually a bit of time for napping before the evening's festivities.

    "Peligroso!" I was shaken awake by a small, leathery-skinned Kuna man who owned the small white sand island upon which I had fallen asleep (surprised?). I looked around at the turquoise blue waters surrounding the island, which was no more than an acre in size. What could I possibly be in danger of here?

    "Tenga cuidado, porque los cocos se caerá sobre usted". Be careful, or the coconuts will fall on your head. The man was genuinely concerned - it must have happened to people before. Jason was quick to inform me that more people die from coconuts falling on their head each year than from lightning strikes.
    Later in the day, Germain picked us up in the boat and took us back over to Isla del Perro, where Jason was well on his way to becoming best friends with some Kuna children. He picked right back up where he left off and started a game of soccer. Of course, two coconuts marked the goalposts. I cheered for one of the Kuna boys, Mario, who we named 'Underwear Boy' due to his only choice of clothing, ever.