PANAMA PARADISE
Isla Bastimentos is a storybook escape of incredible diversity
In 1502, short on supplies, Christopher Columbus and his crew dropped anchor off what is today Isla Bastimentos, a jungle-covered Caribbean island just a few miles off the coast of Panama. They came ashore only briefly, restocking on water, turtle meat and other essentials before continuing on Columbus' fourth and final journey to the Americas.
Fast-forward more than 500 years and — thankfully for travellers — not much has changed here. Unlike Costa Rica, its better-known neighbour to the north, much of Panama remains more or less terra incognita when it comes to global travellers. Tourists who do visit come to tick the Panama Canal off their bucket list (or, in the case of certain international elites, check on offshore investments in the wake of the Panama Papers financial scandal).
But beyond the Panama Canal lies a country that packs an incredible diversity of experience into a tiny footprint. Just 50 miles wide at its pinch-point, Panama boasts two sinuous shorelines — Pacific and Caribbean — studded with secluded beaches and untouched stretches of wilderness. Inland, coastal plains rise to lush cloud forests, home to howler monkeys, toucans and other rare birdlife. Panama City, the capital, brings together gleaming, modern highrises with a beautifully restored, 350-year-old historic core replete with cathedrals and cobblestones.
But perhaps nowhere else exemplifies the off-the-beaten-path allure of Panama quite like Columbus' old stomping grounds, Isla Bastimentos. Totally car-free, almost wholly off the electrical grid and accessible only by small water ferries from the mainland, Bastimentos stretches across more than 5,000 hectares of jungle and mountains, white-sandy beaches and thickets of dense mangrove, much of it permanently protected as a national marine park. Nestled in its many coves are options for travellers of almost every disposition and budget, from immersive jungle eco-lodges to beachfront tiki huts and even resort-style condos.
“When we arrived 24 years ago, there was almost nothing here,” says Jim Kimball, an amiable Texan who, with his good friend and business partner, purchased an eight-ha swath of jungle on Isla Bastimentos shortly after finishing university. A quarter-century later, Tranquilo Bay is a testament to their tireless efforts: a collection of handsome villas in the rainforest — powered with the resort's own electrical supply — centred around a soaring eco lodge where the founding families still reside.
Tranquilo Bay is a favourite among birders and wildlife lovers, who flock here to see an improbable density of local fauna. Guide Christian Muñoz meets me at my villa and hands over a pair of binoculars, pointing to a three-toed sloth dangling from a cecropia tree. “They're not as lazy as people think,” he says. “They just conserve energy during the day.” A Montezuma oropendola bird — stark black with a yellow tail and white-rimmed eyes — flashes overhead, squawking like a car alarm. But we're after a different sort of quarry. After a short motorboat ride, we hop into kayaks, paddling silently through dense mangrove thickets, branches twined overhead into dark tunnels. Once ashore, a path leads through a local Ngäbe Indigenous community, a remote outpost where women wash laundry in the river and kids dive off the banks into the water.
Totally car-free, almost wholly off the electrical grid and accessible only by small water ferries from the mainland, Bastimentos stretches across jungle and mountains, white sandy beaches and thickets of dense mangrove. Remy Scalza
Ahead, Muñoz points to a dark gash where the river issues from the hillside: the entrance to what he affectionately calls “the bat cave.” Inside, we turn on flash lights and trudge through waist-deep water, keeping heads low to avoid bumping stalactites hanging from the ceiling. You hear — and feel — the bats before you see them: tiny missiles in the darkness, darting left and right but never hitting us. “They've got radar,” Muñoz says, “They know where they're going.” He pauses and aims his flashlight upward, revealing a dense colony of hundreds of furry, squirming fruit and nectar bats. Between the closeness of the cave, the dark, cold water and the bats, the experience isn't for everyone, but it's unforgettable. After the subterranean adventure, I'm ready for a different side of Isla Bastimentos. Across the island, a long stretch of white sand known as Red Frog Beach attracts travellers seeking sun, surf and relaxed Caribbean vibes. Set on the hills behind the beach, the resort of the same comprises a sprawling collection of jungle lodges, villas and — the latest addition — luxury condos spread across 600 ha, only 20 per cent of which will be developed. In fact, the property is so expansive that I'm given a golf cart and a map to navigate to my room. (I get lost anyway, but do spot a troop of white-faced capuchin monkeys while making a U-turn.)
Down at the beach, coconut palms dangle over the water at just the right angle for Instagram-able selfies. Bob Marley pumps from the beach club restaurant, while a group of travellers on a girls' getaway sip Coronas in an infinity pool above the water. “Twenty years ago this was a cattle ranch,” explains Mario Jonah, who grew up in nearby Bocas Town and rose through the ranks to manage the hotel. “Today we're one of the largest eco-resorts in the Caribbean. Even when it's full, you feel like you have the beach to yourself.”
But what about these famous red frogs that gave the beach its name? Jonah directs me down a jungle path away from the water, with a warning to keep my eyes open. Mildly toxic but not as poisonous as their South American neighbours, the island's strawberry poison dart frogs were traditionally used by Indigenous people to tip their arrows, though now they're mainly a tourist draw. After a bit of hunting, I start seeing them everywhere — dime-sized, sometimes spotted and sometimes solid-coloured, but always brilliant red.
To experience the “real” Bastimentos, Jonah sends me to Old Bank, the only village of any size on the island, a five-minute boat ride away. In the early 1900s, United Fruit — the infamous grower that inspired the epithet “banana republic” — harvested bananas on this stretch of Panama's coast, housing workers in Old Bank. The banana boom times are long gone, but today a population descended from the original Afro-caribbean labourers still lives here. Brightly coloured wooden homes line the cobblestone main drag. Inside humble shops and fish shacks perched over the water, residents speak Guari Guari — a patois of Spanish and English, with inflections that sound Jamaican.
Twenty years ago this was a cattle ranch. Today we're one of the largest eco-resorts in the Caribbean. Even when it's full, you feel like you have the beach to yourself.
Old Bank makes a good place to soak up some local culture and try a “rondón” — a Caribbean curry made with fish and coconut milk. But arguably the greatest charms of Isla Bastimentos are the quiet and secluded ones.
To see that side of the island, I flag a water taxi and take a bumpy 30-minute ride through turquoise water to a distant bay. Set on a narrow stretch of sand backed by jungle the resort is aptly named Al Natural. At just eight ha, it's postage-stamp sized compared to other island resorts. Lodging is emphatically rustic — a half-dozen open-sided cabanas right on the ocean, with solar power and running water, but little else. Think glamping, with a Caribbean backdrop.
Al Natural was opened in 2001 by Michel Natalis, a Belgian lawyer who, fed up with the corporate rat race, discovered Isla Bastimentos on an around-theworld trip and never left.
While guests here can embark on snorkelling excursions, visit an Indigenous community or even tour a cacao plantation, the real draw is spending long afternoons in a hammock by the water, with nothing to do and no one around.
That and the food.
What it lacks in creature comforts, Al Natural makes up for in French cuisine. On my last night, I join a dozen other barefoot guests in the open-air lodge, where the table is lit by candlelight and decked out with fresh flowers. From the tiny kitchen an elaborate three-course meal improbably emerges: red snapper soup; five spice-crusted kingfish with lime sauce; and crêpes Suzette with fresh papaya.
After dinner, Natalis points out night monkeys, lured down from the trees around the lodge. Their huge eyes give them an incredulous look as they munch on bananas.
Beyond our small circle, there is no light except the moon and no noise but the lap of waves. All in all, not that different from what Columbus may have experienced, minus the crêpes Suzette.