My Panamanian adventures began in late 2004, exploring the stunning, less-touristed islands of Bocas Del Toro – a paradise of red frogs, dolphins, and pristine beaches. Later, venturing south along the coast towards the formidable Darien Gap, I faced a classic traveler’s dilemma: take an expensive tourist sailboat from Colon to Cartagena, or find my own way through the remote Kuna Yala archipelago.
I chose adventure. Reaching the very end of the road, I learned that indigenous Kuna boats occasionally arrived to collect supplies. Patience was key. After three days of waiting, the call finally came: “Hey Tristan, the Kunas are leaving!” I quickly negotiated passage.
Following a tip, I arrived on a tiny, electricity-free Kuna island, introducing myself as an anthropology student seeking a local contact I’d heard about. Luckily, I found him, and he graciously offered me space in his simple bamboo home. Initial curiosity from the islanders slowly warmed, especially after an impromptu didgeridoo performance. Intrigued by the sound, my host immediately grabbed the instrument, painted it with traditional markings, and suddenly, I was the nightly entertainment, welcomed into homes for demonstrations in the pre-electricity quiet.
Serendipity struck again when a large supply boat arrived, tasked with replenishing goods across the archipelago. Seeing my chance, I spoke with the captain. For a modest $10 a day (meals included!), I secured passage – an incredible opportunity to witness authentic Kuna life as we visited island after tiny island, the lush Darien jungle a constant backdrop. I befriended the boat’s accountant, a respected Kuna man who took me under his wing, introducing me to local leaders and sharing insights during our stops.
Reaching the final Kuna island, my accountant friend invited me to stay at his home, adorned with fascinating traditional statues – treating me like a son. But the journey wasn’t over. From seemingly nowhere, a tiny plane landed on a nearby strip, depositing a confident Colombian man claiming diplomatic ties and needing passage across the border. Seeing me, he instantly proposed we share the cost of hiring a cayuco – a small, traditional boat – for a clandestine night crossing. With no other options apparent, I agreed.
We set off at 3 am into the choppy, dark sea. Navigating only by moonlight was unnerving. As dawn approached and we neared the coast, harsh spotlights suddenly pinned us – the Colombian military, understandably wary of unexpected night arrivals. After a tense explanation (mine simply being a first-time entry), I was told to wait for the consul. He arrived hours later, surprisingly welcoming, even offering a shower.
My first steps into Colombia were tinged with the apprehension fueled by headlines and movies. Little did I know, I was on the cusp of discovering a reality far richer, warmer, and more welcoming than I could have ever imagined.
