Real connections between people in Boquete
A bag of oranges was tied to my gate in Los Naranjos on Tuesday morning with no note and no name. Each orange was the size of a fist and sweeter than anything I have bought. I asked three neighbours and each said, not me, with a very suspicious smile. I now leave a jar of honey on the gate every Sunday. It is gone by Monday. I have not seen anyone. I have started to feel watched, in the best way.
ok so the sky was blue when I left the house, so I left my jacket. Soon after, I was crossing Parque Central soaked and confused. It wasn't rain. It was bajareque, that misty drizzle that floats sideways and gets into everything. No sound, no drops, just wet. Locals walked through it like nothing was happening. I stood under a tree feeling like the only person who missed the memo. The jacket lives by the door now.
The bajareque came in at the Parque Central bus stop at 3pm and a crowd of us stood under the same small roof, all commenting on the weather as if it were new information. An older man said, it will clear in twenty minutes. A woman said, thirty. They shook hands on it. It cleared in twenty five. They both claimed victory. I was holding the stopwatch. I did not say. I have not been so happy in a bus shelter before or since.
I was halfway up Volcan Baru on a Saturday afternoon when I got cold and turned around, and a woman coming down said, wait, I have a second jacket. She lent me a wool one and we walked down together comparing blisters, her three to my five. She lives in Palmira, two streets from me. We swap books on the first Sunday of every month. I still have the jacket. I think she knows. I think she is waiting to see how long I will keep it. I am enjoying the suspense.
I have lived here all my life, so I stopped thinking about how to get around years ago. Lately a few people new to Bajo Boquete have asked me, and I realised my answer is just my habit, not a comparison. I know the local buses, the colectivos and the taxis, and roughly who runs each one. What I do not know is what a newcomer ends up using after a month. What did you settle on, and why?
It was harvest season near Jaramillo, and a coffee picker taking a break on the path waved me over, divided his rice and beans in half, and poured me a cup of coffee from a thermos. We talked about rain and prices. He had been picking since six and I had been out for an hour. He had a full sack and I had a camera. It was the humbling kind of lunch. The coffee was better than anything I had paid for. I asked what it was. He said, coffee. I said, yes.
It was 6.40pm on a Thursday after the rains, and a landslide had closed my usual road to Alto Boquete. I had no idea what to do. The taxi driver turned off onto a back road I did not know existed, past a coffee farm, and charged me the regular fare. On the way he pointed at a tree and said, quetzal, sometimes at six. We saw none. He said, tomorrow. I have been back at six on four mornings. I have seen a great many leaves. I will keep going. I trust the driver.
On Saturday morning in the Parque Central in Boquete you sat on a bench with a paper bag of coffee beans, eating them one at a time, slowly, like a very serious experiment. I was near the fountain trying to decide whether I had the courage to ask what they tasted like. The bajareque started and we both ran for the same awning. I did ask. You said, bitter, and ate another. I have bought a bag. It is bitter. I am going to eat one a day, to be sure.
