Travelling across the great divide
Boating between continents amazing adventure
You can’t drive from North America to South America. The Darien Gap, that stretch of swamp and jungle between Panama and Colombia, remains roadless.
But you can boat between the two, and grabbing that opportunity is one of the most amazing adventures. But it’s really the San Blas Islands through which the crossing is made, that turns it into a bucket-list experience.
I was fascinated both by the idea of extending my Central American experience to South America and by the thought of vegging under the palm trees on a secluded piece of Caribbean sand.
The archipelago consists of 365 islands (depending how you count them — our guide insisted a sandbar needed at least one palm tree to be counted), of pristine white, uninhabited Caribbean sand.
They’re also mostly off limits to foreign travellers because they are owned by the Guna Yala, a proud Indigenous people who control the autonomous territory of Panama that includes the San Blas Islands and an approximately 11-kilometre-wide strip of Darien shoreline and mountains.
Luxury sailboat cruises do not excite me, but a San Blas Adventures trip did: a fourday open speedboat trip across the high seas (though staying near shore and frequently under the shelter of the islands), that ended up at the first stop on the Colombian
side of the border, but still far from the road terminus into South America.
Each day’s cruise is about 1.5 to 2.5 hours; the rest of the day is spent snorkelling, swimming, sunning, beach volleyball and so on. You sleep on a different island each night, in a hammock in a three-sided shelter under palm trees.
I signed up for the Dec. 7 departure. Meeting my co-adventurers at the Carti departure dock might have been intimidating had I not faced this situation many times previously: I could have been everyone else’s dad — or grandpa. The seven clients ranged in age from 23 to 68, I was the only one over 40. The staff were mid-20s.
We loaded our gear, which we’d carefully divided between our day-packs and our “big bag,” the latter being stowed for the duration. Mobile phones (for photos; there is no cellular service, nor Wi-Fi, nor ATMs, nor convenience stores), laptop, and extra battery pack all went into my day bag, wrapped in plastic, along with a change of clothes, my toiletries and a towel. The open boat would take on a lot of splash.
I’m not used to rock ’n’ rolling in a powerboat, and the bouncing over the large Caribbean swells gave me a measure of anxiety at first. But the Guna drivers seemed supremely competent and, I assured myself, they don’t want a buoy marking their grave any more than I do.
“Latte or Cocoa?” French guide Val shouted over the roar of the two 75-horse-outboard Merc motors to his U.K. counterpart Chloe, as we neared several islands. “Cocoa,” Chloe yelled back. The boat made a sudden left, heading for the island in that direction. No coffee break, though. Instead, a brewing storm had our guides aborting our planned lunch stop on the island named Latte, to go directly instead to Cocoa, where we were to spend the afternoon and night.
We’d barely unloaded, got our day packs into our hammocks under the semi-enclosed shelter, and our butts under the “dining” shelter, when the heavens opened.
December through April is windy season on this part of the Caribbean. Besides constant breezes, storms come up suddenly.
We had been advised already to allow three or four days beyond the scheduled end of our trip before booking our return flights, as we could get weather-locked and have to wait it out.
Thankfully, many of the huts, typically built with cane walls on three sides and an open front, had metal roofs (others were of thatched palm branches). We stayed dry through the tropical deluge, and half an hour later began our exploration of our micro island, perhaps six football fields in size.
Fortunately, too, it was all sand, leaving no puddles or mud, so shortly after our sumptuous lunch, brought over by the Latte Island family that had been expecting us, we were out enjoying our slice of paradise.
Our guides pointed us to the best snorkelling, adjacent to the next island, a short swim away. Snorkelling gear was supplied.
The reef that gave birth to the archipelago is reputedly the world’s third-largest. Though I failed to spot many fish, the spectacular coral made up for it.
And the swimming? Well, imagine azure blue seas at virtually body temperature over perfectly sloping white sand.
Before long we were into beach volleyball.
Then, half a dozen Indigenous youth (our three drivers plus members of the extended family that owned the island and under whose hospitality we were staying) challenged us gringos to a soccer game.
The sun sets suddenly in the tropics, the islands at about nine degrees north latitude.
Our guides prepared a seven-course feast that included all the lobster our stomachs could handle. Drinks — beer, coolers and rum — were offered by the Guna family, at US$1 or $2 each.
After dinner, it was card and table games as we continued to honour our hosts’ generous supply of libations.
The next day our boat ride was greeted by an exhibitionist dolphin, playfully breaching about half a dozen times as it crossed our path.
The new island was a little smaller, and the island, beyond its basic shoreline, was covered with grass. And on the beach of the nearest island lurked a caiman.
After dinner, storyteller Val gave us his version of the history of the Guna. A fiercely independent tribe, they’d sided with the British and French in the battle over the isthmus.
The victorious Spanish never subjugated them, though, and they resented the plundering of their onshore resources by gold-mining enterprises, and the later establishment of a military presence by the Panamanian government.
In 1925, they rebelled, seizing or killing all government officials in what they fondly remember as the Guna Revelucion.
With the support of the United States, they were able to negotiate a semi-independent territory or “comarca,” governed by a congress of the Guna chiefs. While technically a territory of Panama, and with some government support, they nevertheless fly the Guna Yala flag, require entry passports and a fee, and control their own economy.
San Blas Adventures is one of few companies they have allowed into their territory and it is only through co-operative agreements. (When I inquired about the third “local” on our boat, who was not a driver, nor seemed to be doing anything, I was informed that, officially at least, he was our guide.
“We’re only translators,” Val said, “and our company is just a ‘booking site’ for their business, San Blas Discovery.”) Yeah, right!
The third day took us to a Guna settlement of about 1,000 inhabitants, on their regional capital island of Caledonia. We were taken on a walking tour of the village, a mixture of (mostly) canewalled and palm-thatchroofed buildings and concrete buildings.
The tour concluded with a delightful dance presentation by children outside their school. That night, we enjoyed a meal in the local restaurant in which we were the only customers.
We stayed in a basic hostel-type lodge, built specifically for tour groups, a welcome change for those who’d had difficulty adapting to the hammocks.
Our final day took us just across the border into Colombia. Stamping out of Panama was a lengthy process, as we were carefully scrutinized and dog-sniffed for evidence of drugs. Checking into Colombia, though, was surprisingly perfunctory.