Driving through the countryside of Panama is adventurous and as an explorer of Panama I could ask for no more. It’s wholesome. A simple drive from one destination to the next is bound to discover scenery, people, and animals that to me, at one point in my life, were reserved for independent films and the pages of National Geographic.

We left the small town of Tonosi, in the Azuero Peninsula with a full ride. In the front sat Rebecca and I, and in the back, three full-grown farmers showing us directions to their properties up for sale. I don’t have a whole lot in common with rural farmers, or middle-aged men for that matter, so topics like the disappointment of this season’s Real World cast nor the clarity of Sony’s new plasma TV were subjects that would get anywhere.

Joaquin motioned for me to “double” and I pulled a right, at the long wooden sign for Isla Cana, down a dirt road leading to, what seemed like the ocean. The end of the road met a small estuary surrounded by mangrove forest and the call of exotic birds that sounded like babies. Joaquin walked over to what looked to be a hanging garbage can and whacked it with a metal rod, making this sharp twang sound. Whack. Whack. And the sounds rang off the water and through the forest. Soon enough, arrived a small motor boat and we boarded. The croaking wails of howler monkeys were almost menacing, sounding all too much like a human dying by some terrible means. The boat dropped us off at a small river bank where there appeared to be a fully-functioning village going about its business. Fishermen hauling in the days catch of yellowfin, old men hacking away at giant fallen trees, and father-son tandems carrying loads on horseback. This was really neat.

Bolivar and Joaquin walked us to the beach, not but 10 minutes from the dock-side of the island. The coast was pristine. It was the kind of coast that, should I have been alone, would definitely have encouraged me to act out a lifelong dream of running down a beach naked. A bunch of the land was for sale and I got all the phone numbers and contacts to bring back to Panama City with me. The people on the island were much different than I had anticipated: If I had never seen someone like me, of light skin before, I would probably think I was a ghost—maybe even go at me with a baseball bat or some garlic. But no. These people were so friendly and so welcoming, waving to me even when I hadn’t waved first and fascinated with the magical little silver box that is my camera.

We dropped off the farmers at their homes and continued north-east by ourselves towards the town of Chitre, at one point, stopping to let pass an oncoming herd of cattle. At home, our roads are littered with drunk drivers, anxious policemen, and slow old people in Lincolns—but here, the only hazards are cows. We were getting hungry and pulled off the road to a beach called Playa Venao—a renowned surfing spot on the Pacific coast. We sat down at the little sandy restaurant and had some brilliantly done fried pargo, a dish that Mario would have deemed sensational. Our waiter was resting on a tilted chair and appeared to be very pensive. Was he thinking about us, the gringos who show up and eat all his fish? Or maybe how he was going to ask out that special someone in his life? Was she really interested? The only other action on the beach was a surfer preparing to head out, leaving his perfect little home of a green tent and scattered boards for my photographic leisure.

The signs on the wall of the restaurant were all surf-centric and all represented the work of a one very driven man named Franklin. ‘Surf Board Repair’ one said, with a small phrase etched into the wood at the bottom, ‘contact Franklin’. ‘Surfing Lessons for Free!’ read another one, again with Franklin’s contact info below. I wanted to meet Franklin. I wanted to learn about how he got so good at surfing and how he got so good at making signs. But we had to make it to Chitre by dark. I snapped a picture of the dog I adopted earlier that day. He now goes by the name of Balboa, named after my favorite explorer Vasco Nunez Balboa. The Rocky analogy works too.

Chitre is a bit of an anomaly. I’m borrowing that word, which I think is very accurate, from Shane, a guy from LA we met down at the beach. It’s an anomaly because it doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of rural Panama. It’s got a movie theater, good hotels, fun clubs, and a rarity anywhere except Panama City—two and three story buildings. We stayed at Hotel Miami (attached to the Machetazo) which was very clean and cheap (about $20) and ate sizzling chow fun dinners at the Hong Kong Restaurant which was also very acceptable. Every corner looks alike, with the same roaring roadside barbeques and overstuffed fruit stands. For first-timers, the town can be a bit of a labyrinth to navigate through and we got disoriented more than a couple of times. I’ve always heard that men do not like to admit when they get lost and for that reason, when I got us lost in Chitre, I always tried to defy the stereotype and announce it, the second I thought I had made a wrong turn.

The drive home to Panama City the next day was easy--maybe two hours at most. Chitre seemed like a great city and I'd love to explore it further perhaps on another trip. This little road trip, again reaffirmed my faith that Panamanian people are some of the nicest in the world. It's a very subtle kindness and if you're not watching closely you may miss it--but the way they care about people, the way they sincerely act, is something very meaningful to me.