Even before the electro-dance beats boomthunked around the valley, they told me what was coming; the pony ride guy at the crossroads chapel who went on, at length, about fiestas and drinking getting out of hand. The nearby hotel manager admitted to blocking off rooms to prevent revelers from impacting his older, family-oriented guests. Friends moaned about the noise and traffic. Before dusk I walked over to check it out.

“Valle Bash”, set with the spectacular backdrop of the Cerro Gaital National Park, is a yearly summer all-nighter for Panama’s rich kids. SUVs lined the roads, and party-ready jovenes  lined up to get past security and amble through the broad lawn to the party enclosure. I didn’t stay for the predictable cocktail of youth, money, booze and drugs. As I turned to leave, I saw a drone circling in the sky where I usually saw hawks. Late into the night, DJ-orchestrated Latin pop drowned out the customary croaks and chirps.

Small towns expose people. You know your place more definitely than in a city. In El Valle, pop. 6,000, those rich kids and their parents, Panama’s elite, are derisively called rabiblancos (white assholes). They own most of the land, built extravagant estates on it, and show up on weekends to party. The people who work those estates – the women who cook and clean, the men who wield the weed-whackers – are smaller, browner, uneducated, poor. El Valle is infamously tops in teenage pregnancies in Panama. Few of the campesinos break that cycle.

And what of the foreigners? We’re kind-of part of this place, but transient. Here are snapshots of the expatriates I met over three months;

• Massage therapist, Italian, splits his time between here and Rome with his Panamanian wife and children. Smooth as only an Italian massage therapist can be. Compresses all his appointments into a small number of days to have more free time for his family.

• Ex US Army Ranger. First time in Panama, he landed by parachute in the ’89 invasion. Now a contractor often away doing what former Special Forces types get hired to do. In his free time writes, meditates, eats healthy, travels with his family and finds reasons to pick fights with local petty thugs.

• Central American yoga instructor-agronomist with a world-famous surname, albeit distantly-related. Here with her husband raising a young family and building a business in sustainable local agriculture and promoting an active lifestyle.

• Tennis instructor, American, making a living here in the hospitality industry after doing time in the U.S.  for drug smuggling. Happily mentoring a young North American woman just-released after serving her own four-year jail term in Panama for similar reasons.

• He’s a retired antiques dealer. His partner (also a he) worked in health care administration around the world. Together they have places here, in the US and in Europe. As is often the case with couples, they don’t equally love their location. Too tranquil, not close enough to lakes/rivers, says one.

• Easily bored, he’s built tourism and local development initiatives in El Valle. Divorced, he is searching for companionship and is prepared to go international to find it.

Everybody has a story more complicated than the above conveys. Everyone is from elsewhere and looking for a change of pace and to grow. For them all, El Valle is that place, for now.

We will never know whether the bared fangs were actually snapping at my cojones. But the truth is that I put my forearm in harm’s way and I am glad I did.

Moments earlier: a mid-size, brown-coated overachiever leaps out of his yard and onto the street, running towards me. He stops just short, barking mad. Another dog joins the fray. The lead dog leaps, bites and drops.

Context: I am out for a Sunday morning run, lightly clothed, carrying nothing I can use as a weapon. Nowhere to escape. No one around. The dogs aren’t big, but they have already drawn blood.

Option 1 – flight: I could turn and bolt. But that’s inviting more bites on an undefended backside by two aggressive, emboldened canines.

Option 2 – fight: Man bites dogs? Really?

Option 3 – back away, defend, buy time. I faced them, ready to block again and retreated slowly. A man came out of the house, bellowed at the dogs, and they ran back as fast as they had come.

The whole thing can’t have taken more than fifteen seconds.

A futile exchange with the guy (likely the hacienda’s caretaker). I asked for soap to clean the cuts and received none. Later on, I talk to someone who will be in touch with the man again to make sure the dog isn’t rabid.

I know El Valle’s clinic is only two kilometres away and run there. It is not busy and Doctor Gomez is sitting at his desk eating pieces of fruit out of a Tupperware container. I have no I.D. or money on me, and drip sweat all over the intake form, gringoing my way through an explanation. El medico mercifully switches to English, directs the nurse to clean the wound, and writes prescriptions for a tetanus shot (they have none at the clinic) and antibiotics.

In the afternoon, a cheerful Aussie changes her plans to drive me to a clinic in Coronado where I get the meds. For the next five days, I get to gulp penicillin and have a sore wrist.

I’ve had worse. Self-inflicted missteps leading to broken extremities, traveller’s diarrhea (including a woeful 36 hours here), and a lung infection in India. And in all my years of travel, and running and cycling over many thousands of kilometres, this is the only dog attack. I was once assaulted by a monkey, but that’s another story.