Another day, another border crossing and there was no super-duper Transcontinental bus to take us from Costa Rica to Panama, the land of fetching hats and possibly the greatest engineering feat the world has ever seen, so we had to do this one off our own bat.
We took breakfast in Cahuita on Monday morning in a peculiar place run by a black family who hadn't quite got going when we turned up.
There were various members of the family milling about in what we took for their own dining room, including a lady in a nightdress and curlers and a poor old fellow who looked as though he'd had a stroke.
As he sat there looking out onto the main street of Cahuita I felt so sorry for him and it struck me how lucky we are, not only to be fully functioning but to be in a position to travel the way we are doing.
Ever the pragmatist, Kerry pointed out both that not everyone wants to travel and that if you're going to have a stroke where better to be than a slow-paced Caribbean village?
Fair dos but it doesn't hurt to consider your good fortune every once in a while.
We decided to head to a place called Bocas Del Toro, an archipelago just a few miles off the mainland of Panama, for want of anywhere more exciting within range as much as anything.
The first leg of the journey was by local bus to the border town of Sixaola and though Costa Rica is far too civilised to operate chicken buses, two hours on the sort of bus one would catch around an average English town is quite enough.
I've said this before but we think we have damaged our backsides so prolonged periods sat on them is not much fun.
At the border we had our passports stamped by Costa Rican authorities and then had to trudge about 400 yards by means of an old railway bridge across a river to enter Panama. Whilst this sounds simple enough, the fact that one could either walk on the sleepers between the railway lines (a couple missing, some rotten looking, many uneven) or on loose planks on either side of the lines (prone to unexpected movement) it was anything but.
I started out between the railway lines with my case on my head but after almost misplacing my footing a couple of times I tried my luck on the planks.
We both made it across without incident but as border crossings go it surely must see its share of casualties.
Once into Panama we needed two further buses to reach the port of Almirate, gateway to the Bocas.
The first of these buses was like being in a school disco with the driver playing a medley of 80s songs mixed with a pumping beat.
Through much of Central America we've heard so much music from our youth, it's been great.
The final part of the journey was the best; high-speed panga out to Isla Colon, appropriately named given the amount of 'dunnies' which were positioned in shacks over the water. I think if I had to totter down a rotten looking boardwalk to a shack for my nighttime "gypsy's kiss" I might think twice before that second glass of stagnant water.
Isla Colon wasn't the most prepossessing of places. It was cloudy, chock full of gringo backpackers, many of whom had gone 'bush' - sporting dreadlocks, bare feet, sitting in the street playing bongos and it just had the wrong vibe for us.
It's a fine line: too remote or no gringos whatsoever and we feel conspicuous; too many gringos, particularly those living on tuppence ha'penny per day and we don't like that either.
Despite our reservations we had gone to a lot of effort to get here so we found a room, with the help of a dreadlocked El Salvadorean we'd met on the bus, and went out for a gastronomic splurge. Our mantra of 'meat inland - seafood by the sea' was played out in the form of langoustine and lobster and the bill was higher than that of the room!
Next day we were still consumed by apathy but again reasoned that we had to give the place a chance.
After a little look around we took a bus up to the north of the island to a place called Bocas Del Drago and supposedly the best beach for swimming without the threat of being caught in a Dutch Antilles bound riptide.
It was still cloudy so it wasn't the greatest beach weather but we did come across a place called 'Starfish Beach' which was a good place to snorkel. Some of the starfish must have been 12-14 inches across and I hadn't realised how many different sorts there are.
A couple of cafes had set up on the sand but sitting on their chairs didn't seem to render us safe from sand fleas.
Why my Limey bod is so irresistible to anything in the Americas with a mandible is unclear but it seems to be so.
The only satisfaction I have is that Kerry is also becoming more and more susceptible so I figure that any that bite her wont bite me, plus, by way of wiling away quiet evenings, we can scratch each others inaccessible itches.
That's true love for you.
That evening's meal was the antithesis of the night before with a chicken thigh, thimble full of beans and tea spoon of rice masquerading as a filling meal. That it was served to us, the only diners in the joint, by a transvestite seemed somehow appropriate. Personally I feel we should have gone for the sausage, or at least the meat and two veg.
We were very grateful for street vendors outside selling skewers of meat, particularly as they were only a dollar each and our tranny meal was so paltry we had to buy eight to satisfy our appetites.
A dollar each? Yes, Panama uses US currency which is very useful for us as we need to load up on it before heading south.
It's officially called the 'Balboa' here, nothing to do with Sly Stallone, Vasco Nunez de Balboa was first mate on the ship which discovered Panama in 1502 and 'twas he who 'discovered' there was another, rather large, ocean on the west coast twelve years later, claiming it and every piece of land it touched for Spain.
With Isla Colon failing to inspire us we made for the mainland next morning and the city of David, a convenient waypoint en route to Panama City.
Once we were back over the water we took a bus across country, arriving at about 1500, a jolly jaunt of five to six hours in all.
This was our first proper opportunity to see the Panamanian countryside and it was a true joy to behold.
We travelled through a verdant, mountainous wonderland of twisting roads and low-lying cloud, thick with tropical vegetation.
For the habitationally curious among you, most houses seem to be of wooden construction and are situated on stilts.
Our bus, a little 20 seater, was pretty full when we boarded so Kerry and I ended up sitting apart and the lady I found myself sharing the rather inadequate seating with could politely be described as having child bearing hips.
Kerry fared slightly better although her seat mate had apparently forgotten to administer deodorant that morning.
And so to David, Panama's second city and an opportunity to pass some time with some childish jokes.
"So you're going to David are you? After all we've been through"
"Do you expect David to be hot?"
"I bet you'll like David better than me"
Oh, how the time flies when you ran out of worthwhile conversation two months and six countries ago!
It rained on arrival but we opted to walk to find an hotel in the interests of frugality. We located an absolute pearler in the Hotel Cervantes and then went out for a little wander, working out quickly that the Lonely Planet is right, there isn't anything here to hold your attention for long.
It's just a large town; it reminded me a bit of Wellingborough only there were more 'tat' shops.
We did find a great restaurant with a friendly waiter who couldn't comprehend that we didn't hail from either Liverpool FC or Manchester City but, that pleasant little interlude aside, David didn't do it for Kerry.
With some relief then we boarded a swanky bus on Thursday morning bound for Panama City.
We're four and a half hours in to that journey and despite being admonished for using the luggage rack to stow luggage (go figure) all is well and, we hope, unabated excitement awaits us in what is labelled Central America's most cosmopolitan city.
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