Pedalling To Panama

by Clive Parker

Prologue

A cafe in Colón. I am the only white person around. An elderly man in the corner raises his hand and smiles at me. The ice cream is good, although the coffee is a little bitter. Panamanian coffee tends to be bitter. I had seen no other foreigners in Colón. I look at the scene around me. The main street is wide, with gardens down the centre. There are large trees, flowering bushes, and seats for relaxation, for watching the world go by. A boy leads a blind man along the street.

 

Signs have been erected saying ‘Tourism - the future of Colón depends on it’ and ‘Say no to violence, say yes to peace’. I hope the 50 cents I have paid for the coffee and ice cream will make a difference. Looking at the very visible poverty around me, I doubt it somehow. I'm drinking my coffee slowly as I feel less conspicuous in the cafe. 

The guide books tell you not to go to Colón unless you have to. I didn't have to. Colón is at the northern, Atlantic, end of the Panama Canal, a fascinating man-made wonder of the world. It seemed a logical place to finish a bike ride through Mexico and Central America. My ride finished at Balboa, near Panama City, and having taken a boat through the canal, I am now waiting for the train back from Colón to Panama City.

I had been through a unique part of the world. It is neither North America nor South America, and it certainly isn’t European. It is, well, Central America. I felt privileged to have been part of it for several months and to have fitted in. As a foreigner travelling through this region, I aroused much interest, especially as I had chosen to travel by bike.

 

Despite the poverty I found a region peopled by warm, friendly, hospitable folk. I never felt personally threatened or in danger. Even in El Salvador and Nicaragua, countries recently torn by civil wars, I felt perfectly comfortable and found that people were so pleased to meet a foreigner, and to have the opportunity to talk about their views of things. People were concerned for me and for my safety and I received numerous warnings, if not outright doubt, that to cycle such a distance was fraught with danger. It seemed fitting therefore, to spend my last day in Colón, a city the guidebooks tell you to avoid.

The feeling of welcome had started as soon as I arrived at Chihuahua Airport, seven months earlier. It’s a small airport and my plane was the only arrival. A large cardboard box was sitting alone on the International luggage conveyor, in the customs hall. It contained my bike. There were no luggage trolleys so the customs woman summoned a porter with a barrow. ‘Where do you want to go?’ he said. ‘A quiet corner where I can assemble my bike’ I said. He took me to the perfect spot under the watchful eye of the airport police who seemed to have nothing else to do but watch me. One of them came over to chat to me, I told him of my plans to cycle through Mexico and Central America to the Panama Canal. Then I said I must be tonto, or crazy. He said ‘no not tonto, an Adventurer’. It felt like a good start to Mexico.

CLICK HERE TO READ AN EXTRACT FROM CHAPTER 9 HERE TO RETURN TO THE SUMMARY