“It’s like speed dating for boats,” Hannah muses as we motor
up to the sailboats and yachts anchored around a cluster of islands. They are a small handful out of the
approximately 365 in the archipelago of Guna Yala, formerly referred to as Kuna
Yala and San Blas Islands off of the Panamanian Coast.
The Kuna launcha boat driver asks, “What is the name of your
boat? Or Captain?” Hannah blithely shrugs. The Italian woman has
names. Wet and shivering like a Chihuahua, I remember only the written name of
my Captain from WhatsApp and falter at the pronunciation. Is this where things go sideways?
It’s a 2 ½ hour jeep ride from Panama City to Port Carti, passports
required as you pass the Guna Yala checkpoint, then about ½ hour ride via
launcha to whichever unassuming sailboat, luxury yacht, or island is your
destination. Transportation is organized by most places you book with, making
it easy and accessible. Hannah, Maria,
and I, all solo women travelers from different hotels, shared a jeep with 4
others from Panama City, but only the 3 of us ladies were ushered onto the same
launcha at Port Carti.
We merely traveled a short distance until we slowed and,
after some idling, pulled into a drive-through floating garage for boats to
fuel up. As the tank behind my wooden bench seat was filled via a long hose, we
all became palpably silent, acutely aware of how much fuel in plastic barrels we
were surrounded by and our vulnerable, tethered situation. I wanted to take a picture to explain the
tension but paused. What did that
episode of Myth Busters say about cell phones and gas stations again?
After what seemed a long time of suspiciously eyeing the
plastic fuel barrels, we sped off into the great expanse of Guna Yala. What began as an occasional misting quickly
developed into an enthusiastic spray of seawater. Stinging with salt, my eyes were soon
involuntarily shutting as I wiped away tears.
Blind rides without seatbelts - my favourite. Then it began to rain and I surrendered my
dry bits of clothes to whatever liquid lashing was coming for me, thankful for
my dry bag purchase. Some kids go to
Disneyland; I go to Guna Yala by speed boat.
Coming upon a constellation of islands, we slow to search
anchored boats, wondering who will win at this speed boat dating game. The Italian girl elegantly boards her
boat. Perhaps 10 minutes away, Hannah
boards, my hopes of being on her boat dashed.
And then it was one. We motor
about the anchoring site and, after some uncertain moments, find my sailboat. A
theme is set as I unglamorously board, wondering what I have gotten myself into
for the hundredth time, a mark of a good adventure I’m sure.
The Captain introduces me to laid-back, Canadian Doug and sunny-faced,
English Julie, the cook, who ends up being more of a cool sailing mate along
with Doug. Also on the boat is Praxis, a
mysterious Kuna, rumored to have worked with the CIA, who has the magic power
of fixing anything and is one of the more fascinating people I have wanted to
know but lacked the Spanish necessary to be as inquisitive as desired. After being served some breakfast we are off
sailing. “Are there any sharks in the
water?” I ask. “No, but there are on the
boat,” the Captain says.
Isla Verde is our first stop where a Kuna is sailing an Ulu,
a traditional Kuna dugout canoe with sails. Praxis takes us by dinghy to the small,
seemingly deserted island with no visible structures. Doug, Julie, and I relax in the tranquil, pristine
waters, chilling and idly chatting. In
the low-light cloudy weather, the complementary colours of the moody sea frolic
with the coconut tree backdrop; the natural beauty is stunning even in overcast
conditions. Praxis slices coconut with
his machete offering us the meat.
Later, I read in a book on the boat that every coconut tree in
Guna Yala belongs to a Kuna so do not touch, the book cautions, even ones that
are on the ground. This makes sense as
coconuts have historically been and continue to be a form of trade for the
indigenous people of Guna Yala. Praxis,
being Kuna, made this acceptable. Knowing
this, I otherwise respectfully wouldn’t dare touch a coconut in Guna Yala as a
tourist/traveler unless offered by a Kuna. Octopus is prepared for lunch on the
sailboat then we lifted anchor and continued on.
We encountered some unexpected 6’ swells and I had the
unfortunate timing of being below deck when they hit. After being knocked around in the loo and my
cabin, I began to feel queasy and made my way above where there was a strange
quiet. Is this where things go wrong? I really did not want to be THAT girl,
hanging her head off the back of the boat.
A brief survey of the boat concluded that it was not barf friendly. We
all sat awkward. Quiet. Tense. Julie was
scared of the rough waters; I was scared of being seasick on an unbarfable boat,
and Doug was chill in a Canadian way, eh.
Memories of the Stand By Me Effect from my 3 nights at sea in Australia on
the Great Barrier Reef years ago washed over my mind. I know how wrong things can go on a boat. It
can make or break relationships or simply make you sick, even if it’s through
forced observation in windy, rainy, plastic-shuttered weather, one seasick
passenger after another vomiting within close listening and smelling proximity
until one by one your comrades fall into a spewing fit.
Fortunately, the swells subsided as we sailed into the calm,
reef-protected waters of the Eastern Holandes Cays, the farthest islands from
land, situating ourselves near BBQ and Banedup islands. Cayos Holandeses or Holandes Cays is the
European name; it is also called Maoqui by the Colombians and Kaimou by the
Kuna. Every island here seems to have at least two names and perhaps a
nickname. It can be confusing.
Additionally, my hopscotch research revealed the indigenous people do
not have a K sound in their language calling into question “Kuna”. Kuna was indeed changed to Guna in 2011 as
it’s a closer representation of the name. In many places Kuna is still
referenced, which was my experience and why mostly used here. The names are a struggle as well as other
basics like fresh water and electricity.
Just prior to civil twilight we anchor. The Captain points to 4 boats anchored in the
distance. He tells us they have claimed that area for themselves and will shout
at anyone who comes close driving them away. Apparently they are “Americans”
and assholes. Nobody seems surprised.
There is talk of going to the island in the evening for
dinner. Venturing out on a dinghy in
darkness on my first night to one of the most remote islands with no water and
electricity, the sound of waves relentlessly crashing on the reefs on the
outskirts has me uneasy, but I remain quiet considering if it is a terrible
idea or possibly a great adventure. I’m
relieved when we decide to have dinner on the boat and visit in the morning. A light occasionally flickers from the island
and I wonder if it is a dinner invitation, an SOS, or just an overzealous local
headlamp.
Our dinner is the lobster that I have watched “water skiing’,
as Doug lightheartedly calls it, behind the boat in their mesh bag cage. Naively,
I look at this as a good opportunity to learn how lobster is prepared. Praxis, possible ex-CIA affiliated, is armed
with a pair of plyers, his lifetime of sea experience, and callous human hunger.
It is hard for me to watch the brutality, the snapping of antennae while still
alive. Is this where, against so many bacon odds, I become vegetarian?
I politely eat what is served and try my best to make their life
and death meaningful without as much waste as I can stomach. We throw the
shells overboard and it would be defenestration if only there were
windows. Fish don’t care about words
like defenestration and come for the unexpected feast, inspiring Praxis to
fish. The contemplative Canadian
casually watches for some time then turns to us and, with the wisdom of someone
who has been at sea longer says, “I hope he catches a cheeseburger.”
Julie and I continue talking and drinking; Doug resigns,
attempting to sleep in the berth too hot for his Canadian soul. Meanwhile
Praxis fishes, Julie meeting him with a red bucket every time a fish is reeled
in. Praxis is increasingly ecstatic with
each fish caught, smiling with a boyishly handsome, toothy grin in the dim
light. The fish slowly die, gasping beside me in the bucket, and I make the
mistake of looking at them, their mouths gaping, eyes imploring. They usually
gasp, flail, and are alive two at a time until they die. I observe this not
knowing what to do, torn between savior and at least humane killer. At one
point a tuna was doing the most magnificent reverse twirl determined to escape.
Inside I was rooting for the tuna, toying with scenarios where I aid the escape
but can’t bring myself to sabotage dinner and Prax’s fishing efforts. Earlier I
requested that a fish be killed humanely.
A hammer emerged but did nothing except create an aquatic crime scene, fish
blood splattering on the white boat making us recoil and squirm while the
brutalized fish remained alive.
“It’s very confronting,” Julie says and I am there for every
word she speaks. Yes, confronting. Isn’t there a way to humanely kill fish? I am all for dinner and understand hunger and
the circle of life but c’mon, can’t we humans do better? We would Google it if
only we had any kind of service out here but there is nothing. No Wi-Fi, no Internet, no cell service,
nada. I am socially dead to anyone who
cared, but more importantly, I can’t ask google what to do about this fish
situation.
Julie tells me how, in preparation for cooking on a boat, she
taught herself how to gut and clean a fish with scissors. “It was really grim,” she says dryly in her
British accent that accentuates the horrors.
As astronomical twilight unmasks a sprinkling of stars and
the sailboat gently sways, Julie relates some of her travels about hanging out
with an Albanian guy in Malaysia swimming and fishing with nets. They caught a particularly dangerous looking
fish with huge spikes all over and, pleased with themselves, brought it to the
locals and asked if they wanted to cook it.
They wanted nothing to do with it. They returned to the beach, found a
bonfire, and cooked the fish. Proudly, they
brought the cooked fish back to the locals and asked if they wanted to partake
in the feast. They absolutely did
not. “Noioaooao.” the Malaysians definitively
said in her British accent with an impressive array of diphthongs.
Julie tells me that the ocean had every dangerous fish
you could think of, “that’s why nobody swam there. I was really put off by the ocean,” she says.
I peer into the bucket of fish and can see small spikes and sharp teeth,
wondering what she must have seen. Still,
somehow, Malaysia goes on my mental future travel map with her stories about
how wonderful the people are - just don’t swim in the ocean.
She goes on to tell about some Chinese guys who brought
drugs to the village. They came again before New Year’s Eve showing up with
firecrackers and dopey excitement, like” hey, look what I have!”, inviting her
to set fireworks off in a National Park.
“First of all, it’s illegal to set off fireworks - let
alone in a National Park!” Julie says.
“The next morning they were all there on the beach, asleep with their
mouths open. We can’t leave them like
that they’ll burn - they’re white! So I
put leaves on their faces so they wouldn’t burn.”
I try to stifle my laughter in the late night as the
story ricochets from one absurd travel memory to the next. The last thing I
remember is her telling me about a crack or meth pipe being offered to her from
a rather obese man and her wondering, “Where am I? Am I in the furthest corners
of society?” and laughing and laughing as Praxis reels in one more fish to add
to the bucket.
I sleep soundly and wake to paradise properly lit by sunny
skies. This is ridiculously, stunningly,
beautiful. Postcard, Microsoft Screen Saver, Instagram photo perfect. It’s a fantasy, a dream, a wild, waking
longing for beauty, tranquility, and perfection.
Prax takes us to the island after breakfast. “Ich. Terrible!” Julie sarcastically sputters
as she splashes through the water. We are
still acclimating to the beauty as we slowly register the trash strewn about
amidst the copious conch shells. A Kuna
woman named Elisa ambles over and tells Julie who relates to Doug and I, the
bad weather and waves have brought the garbage and that it will be cleaned up. The
port was shut down due to dangerous weather and reopened a day or two before I arrived
so this is plausible. Doug, Julie and I
discussed the trash and decided to spend some time helping by putting it into
piles so it was easier for locals to clean. Obsessively, I piled up everything
I could find – seemingly endless bits of yellow and green plastic rope, bottles,
aluminum cans, random plastic pieces, and what appeared to be metal roof or
boat parts. It was incredibly distressing to see this human waste on such an
intimate, beautiful island far from land.
It was as confronting as lobster antennae being mauled by plyers or fish
gasping in a bucket. What the fuck are
we horrible, irresponsible humans doing?!
Something inside me felt better for picking up the trash and
putting it in piles, even if it was only one tiny gesture towards a much larger,
serious global issue. We later discuss
the garbage problem on the sailboat.
There was blame on companies like Coca Cola and hard-stop ideas about
how to manage (ban). There was
commentary about the indigenous culture perhaps living day to day without
future guide. Aren’t we all living day to
day to some degree? I often do. So, who is responsible? Everyone.
Perhaps paradisiacal islands aren’t the appropriate landscape for this quote, but “Every snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty” comes to mind. Every company earning profits from their products, every individual or tour group who profits from these islands and, yes, also the locals, all the consumers, travelers/tourists including myself – we are all responsible for this mess so we are all responsible for cleaning it up and coming up with solutions.
We ventured back to the end of the island we arrived on then
towards the other immaculate end of the island free of human waste passing by
small huts and men catching barracudas.
I’m going to be that annoying girl on social media. Oh, look!
Another perfect island vacation photo!
And it was perfect. Conch shells artistically
scattered around a palm tree in white sand, luminescent aqua waters transitioning
to deep azure blue in the background.
Ich indeed.
After wading into the gentle waters spending some time immersing
ourselves in the sublime scene, we went back to Elisa’s thatched roof huts to
ask a favour, Julie the brave social one and linguistically superior leading
the way. The thatched roof huts appear flimsy and I wonder what it’s like when
a huge storm comes, but apparently they are made in such a way that they
withstand fierce rainstorms. After some idle
chatting, Elisa applies the red make-up that adorns the Kuna cheeks on each of
us. It looks more striking on the Kuna
with their dark complexion and black hair but seems to give Julie, Doug, and I
an added dimension. Later when I look at
photos of myself during those moments I think, “Wow. I look so…happy.”
And I was.
Elisa tells us the red comes from a tree, a name that sounds
like it starts with an N in but I can’t seem to comprehend or find. It’s a mystery, yet real and blooming on my
cheeks. It is much later when I discover
it is annatto seeds that are ground up and used to make the rouge.
She proudly shows us her molas. Molas are one of the things I came here for
along with the culture and stunning islands. Traditional molas were geometric
and it was only since the ~1960’s that abstractions of animals appeared in the
molas. They are layers of fabric cut out
and sewn with precision in a reverse applique to create patterns with
contrasting colours. They can take 2
weeks to 6 months to make and typically sell for $20 to $60. Tiny needles
create a very fine stitch in high class molas that are visible on the back
side.
It is important to me to buy these molas especially as they
are handmade by indigenous people, primarily women. The Kuna are one of the few existing examples
of matrilineal and matrilocal societies in the world. Women control the money and make domestic
decisions, grooms acquire the last name of the bride and move to live with the
women’s family. There is gender equality in that Western ideas of women’s work
such as cleaning and cooking is not looked upon as “lesser”. There is also gender fluidity so if a man wants
to have long hair or express themselves in a feminine way and become Omeggid,
literally “like a woman”, the Kuna eye doesn’t even blink. They aren’t truly matriarchal
and women rarely hold political positions of power, which is comprised of a
system of chiefs or sailas.
It is difficult to tell at a cursory glance from the few
islands I visited what remains of customs after so many infiltrations of
foreigners and religions foisted upon the Kuna. At one time, the Kuna painted
intricate patterns on their bodies, but with religious objection to nudity,
transitioned to molas. Westernization has also made its imprint, easily visible
by the pink TV satellite dishes in conspicuous contrast to the weathered and
worn structures they are affixed to in some of the more populated villages. Western styles of clothing are common among
the younger generations and, while many wear traditional dress at touristy
points or for dancing performances, more women are opting out entirely.
In my limited visiting, it was primarily older women in
traditional dress which I found incredibly striking. They wear molas connected
to yolks and sleeves, paired with a skirt similar to a sarong but with heavier
fabric, sometimes head scarves called Muswe, gold septum piercings part of a
ritual called Ico-Inna to symbolize how the female is a treasure, and Unini, beaded
wrappings on arms and legs first donned during their puberty ceremony. In particular, the beaded leg bands are gorgeous,
no matter how worn. They have thinner
legs (underdeveloped calves as someone observed) and it’s true, the island are
flat, not mountainous. Some have already
been lost to climate change and rising waters and many others are threatened. It’s strange to look out and question with a heavy
dose of realism, how many more will be lost in 50, 25, or even 5 years?
What sets these picturesque islands apart from so many
others in the world is the matrilineal/matrilocal culture. Patriarchal
societies abound. Has it done women, men,
or this world, any convincing amount of good that offsets the atrocities it has
provoked? I am fascinated by this
culture, their way of life, and what can be learned. The Kuna have traditionally had low rates of
cancer and health problems that plague other cultures and, similar to other
matrilineal and matrilocal cultures, less crime. So yes, I want to buy molas
from these women in support of them and their culture in a way that preserves
rather than erodes or destroys.
We have brought very few things with us on the dinghy and certainly
not money. We must come back. We return to the swimming pool beach where
you can walk for many yards in shallow aqua sea until a chasm is abruptly
unveiled by unnervingly deep blue. Prax
takes me back to the sailboat to get money for Doug and I to buy molas. US dollars is used in Panama and, with few
ATM’s and limited or non-existent Wi-Fi/internet connection, cash is preferred
and often the only option in Guna Yala. Upon
our return, Prax motors close to Julie and Doug. Maneuvering out of the dinghy, I slip falling
butt first into the water holding my pouch of electronics and money up high
laughing. “Graceful as a gazelle,” Doug says. That’s me! There are themes to every travel
and my grace and modesty seems to have vacationed elsewhere. What’s a sailing
excursion without at least one Janet Jackson slip amongst a new sailing mate?
We return to the thatched roofs and huts where Elisa and
Victor reside for lunch. Prax and Aki BBQ the fish Prax caught and this
is eaten with rice and a salad with olives.
We admire molas from Elisa and
her woman companion who has joined us.
Doug and I buy several from each.
I request to take a picture of Elisa’s friend. She seems to not quite understand and I
hesitate, suddenly unsure of the unspoken rules of this exchange. She shifts several times resting her hand on
the table, as though uncertain how to pose. I find it charming, authentic. It’s
so rare to find a woman who is so unassuming in this Kardashian age. It is
as refreshing and soul soothing as the swimming pools in the Holandes Cayes.
Even as I write this with Microsoft Word, Kardashian is a word accepted without
pause while molas, Holandes Cayes, and Guna Yala are not.
*****
We are out of rum on the sailboat. It might be a big deal. Praxis ventures off to nearby islands that show
no sign of life but must have potential rum reserves and returns empty handed.
It becomes a point of tense discussion.
Finally, Doug, the Canadian conflict manager of the boat, presides and
proclaims that we, as a group, have decided to leave the Holandes Cayes, mutiny
being a finer conversation point along with, “we really don’t like you that
much”.
Setting sail, we end up at the more densely populated Corazon
de Jesus in search of rum and fresh water, the latter seeming more of a side
note. I am concerned about leaving all
of my valuables and passport on a boat that anyone can walk on via the boat we
are moored against. Julie waves off my
worries with assurances and we briefly discuss.
She seems to be well versed in travel trust of certain
cultures/strangers. I am well versed in
how trust can go wrong, especially of those you think you should be able to
trust. Her version seems safer given my
life experiences and our current location amongst the peaceful and hospitable
Kuna so I relent.
Despite our multi-teamed attack searching the dirt roads and
structures of Corazon de Jesus for rum, none is found. We walk the village, cross Friendship Bridge
to the next island village of Narganá or Yandup, pass by a trio of the thought
to be extinct pay phone snapping pictures like a millennial, and buy half-frozen
beer from a little store. We go back to
the town square and drink slushy beer as the sun sets and the kids wind down
their basketball games. A dozen or so plastic
chairs are set up outside in front of a structure with a large TV. The majestic intro to the Lion King sounds
and a couple minutes in, fizzles to a stop and has to be restarted. This happens
at least 3 times while we sip our slushy cerveza but they are undeterred. An
inebriated local chats Julie up as Doug and I listen, and at one point a group
of guys come up and proclaim, “We are the gays” which I only understand
later. I would have liked to properly
meet the gays of Guna Yala.
We head back to the boat and it is moved at night to anchor
farther off from the island with the discovery of the mast light having gone
out. Again, it is eerily silent as the
sailboat maneuverers in the darkness to anchor between other boats. I eat conch for the first time and am
thankful it is prepared with red sauce and mushrooms and later, appreciative that
I didn’t have internet to see what they look like with those eyes.
Dawn arrives bringing dolphin sightings. The dinghy makes a morning run for rum bringing
back rum for all. Mutiny averted, we
set sail for Chichime.
On our voyage, the captain tells us about the Kuna marriage
ritual and we all lean in close, cast in the postures of children around a
campfire listening to ghost stories. I am
not the only one deeply interested in the Kuna culture. He tells us that as part of the ceremony for
marriage, the couple takes an erotic shower while people wait. Then in a hut they hold each other in a
hammock while someone tells the history of Kuna through song.
When I ask about who asks who to marry he quickly replies
that it is not like that with a dismissive tone and gesture. He is a Middle Eastern man so I take it with
a grain of salt as it contradicts what I’ve read on how primarily it is the
woman who chooses, as well as various versions of the marriage ceremony. Could
he just be witness to the slow drift away from matrilineal/matrilocal customs?
He talks about how there is little to no crime, and when
there is, they ask the person why they did what they did. In extreme cases, there is punishment in the
form of exile from the community to the mainland where it is much more
difficult to live.
He also tells me of Waili, the nickname of the island
they will drop me off at where I am to spend 3 nights. Wailidub, sometimes seen as Wailidup, is also
referred to as Isla Elefante. He
proclaims it is the only island with many cockroaches and mosquitos. Out of 365
islands, I’m going to the worst one for bugs?
He must be exaggerating, but just in case I trade him one of my solar
lanterns for bug spray, an item I intentionally left at my Panama City hotel
fearing I was taking too much. He tells us
some outrageous story about a fat man exploding who was a previous manager, and
“two midgets on the island”, one being a lawyer. Between the Canadian and the Brit, the jokes
start. “Will you please stand up in the
courtroom”, “I am!” and “All rise!” We laugh inappropriately, unsure how much
to believe. He goes on. For
some reason there is a feud between the Captain and one of the little people so
he tells me to give the guy the finger when I land. “Tell him I say this!” he
emphasizes by displaying his middle finger.
My arrival to Wailidup is by dinghy and true to this trip,
sans grace. (I have since blocked out the undignified way I clambered onto the
dock but in my defense I don’t recall a ladder.) I am checked into my cabina on
the water, something I’ve wanted to do ever since I saw pictures long ago of
little houses extending over water and thought, how amazing! These are modest versions with simple rooms
and a door that only locks from the inside with a piece of wood turned at a 90
degree angle. I don’t care. I’ve wanted
this experience for too long to be petty.
There were indeed 2 little people on the island. I briefly
entertained giving one the finger in good fun and possible catalyst to interesting
conversation, but can’t afford such a frivolous lapse in judgement on an island
with very few escape routes. It’s small
enough to walk around in about 10 minutes and, in case you missed this episode
of reality is stranger than fiction, there is not one but two little people in
the total population of about 20 including tourists.
Instead, I went to my porch that led to the sea and watched
Prax fix the mast light on the sailboat in the distance. I suddenly, felt a form of loneliness I
rarely feel. I had been on a small vessel for 3 nights and quickly became
accustomed to my sailing mates - laughter, drama, mishaps and all. Transitioning
to such a small, easily traversed island where I knew absolutely nobody with limited
or no access to fresh water, electricity, and cell/internet services was far
outside the realm of my usual experiences.
I enjoy my own company so it was more the transition that was jarring. This isn’t Survivor, so now what? Just relax and enjoy. Luckily, I excel at both of these things.
There was a cockroach or two but I didn’t see a single
mosquito. However, I was silently
attacked by voracious insects at each nightly communal dinner at the sole
island restaurant. This included a fish dinner (surprise!) or a chicken
alternate (seeing no chickens on the island I went with fish) and the
opportunity to meet everyone. There were
Italians, Portuguese, some serious world travelers (like the kind that consider
100 countries child’s play and have coordinated dinners with terrorists and guerillas
for the adventure), some French, and zero Americans – just the way I like it
sometimes.
In the day I would marvel at the strangeness of the
shipwreck in the distance that made it appear as though a large ship was perpetually
headed towards my cabina, or watch launchas slowly motor by laden with tourists
occasionally snapping photos. At night I
would enjoy the porch with my solar lantern and a rum and coke or cerveza, the
only beverage options besides water and instant coffee, listening to the waves
crashing on the distant reef and see the occasional shadow fish swim under my bed
or a crab come to visit and several geckos who had developed a taste for
coke. I had very limited service and
tried sending messages with varying degrees of success. One hurried text sent at some point on the
trip was, “Do you receive my message”.
My friend who got it later said because of the bad English she questioned
for a moment if someone had my phone and I was dead.
The next day I was casually summoned by workers with some
generic, “lady!” and “hello!” yelled outside my cabina. I walked out to greet them with an empty coke
in my hand. A stow-away gecko jumped
from the can to me and the traditional “I have something on my body” dance that
many travelers know so well began. As
arms flailed and I half screamed, half twirled, the two laughed so hard I
thought they might cry. Genuine laughter
is bonding and they remembered my name after that display of lunacy. “Marido?” they asked. “No.
No quiero.” They laughed again.
On such a small island you either relax in the cabina or on
the porch extending to the sea, enjoy the main beach, or take day tours. I did a little of each. On one day tour, a launcha took us to Isla
Perro, or what I like to call Gasoline Island because there were danger signs
everywhere that they stored fuel.
Wonderful. I’m on a tiny,
flammable island. It wasn’t my cup of tea with tents littering the limited
landscape but did have some lovely beaches, places to eat, and for diver
enthusiasts, shipwrecks to explore.
The highlight was going to the “swimming pools” or “piscine
natural”, a sandbar in the middle of the ocean.
While touristy, I still can’t get over the feeling of standing up with
ocean all around. It’s a strange,
non-intuitive, wondrous feeling.
I also walked the small island I was staying on and noticed
trash littering the shoreline, a sharp contrast to the main beach kept
clean. It was disturbing and as much as
I wanted only beautiful pictures, I also couldn’t in good conscience ignore it
and took photos of that as well. It was a reminder to take back as much garbage
as I could and do better in my daily life going forward.
On my departure back to Port Carti I was efficiently included
on a day trip boat to Icodub. Icodub had
several cabinas on the island as well as a few tents and areas for larger BBQ
gatherings. Reggaeton music played from
various portable speakers and there was a lovely swing on the beach.
While it was another island you could easily walk around, it
was the most tourist populated I’d seen by far with day trippers, indicating
the closeness to land. Layered, ominous
clouds rolled in and I worried about getting back before the weather hit.
Even as light rain started, so did a Kuna dance as people
gathered to watch. Several young women
with maracas and young men with panpipes danced weaving in and out amongst each
other with coordinated barefoot steps on the grass. This didn’t feel like a
simple song, rather a gift being shared. It was a beautiful way to depart Guna
Yala.
***
I haven’t properly showered in 6 days.
When I return to my Panama City hotel, I take a quick, luxurious
hot shower, giddy with simple amenities like a large hotel bath towel. I can’t wait to eat a burger - or anything
but fish. Sipping a fancy cocktail with
rooftop pool views over city lights feels euphoric and I savour the pasta I order. I like it, revel in it.
This is one of many reasons why I love travelling. You stop taking things for granted. You delight in things you maybe didn’t before
or at least not to the same degree. You have unsettling conversations about
garbage and climate change and interrupting cultures that are actually doing
better than the rest of the world in many ways - more peaceful and egalitarian
- hot water and electricity or not. You meet interesting well-traveled people
along the way, ready to share a story or a laugh and often an honesty you don’t
get from people you expect to see again. You experience other ways of living
that have nothing to do with anything you’ve ever been taught or recklessly born
into. Guna Yala has something special,
not to be exploited by tourism, converted by other cultures or religions, or casually
dismissed. It is a place to be honored, appreciated,
and respected. I want to go back. I have
so many unanswered questions about the Kuna culture. I want to see and
understand so much more. Sometimes, I want to go back before it was
infiltrated, but I’m glad I went before it is further altered or lost whether
to missionaries, westernization, patriarchy, or climate change. Most of all, I
want to go back to that exquisitely simple moment with a Kuna woman tenderly
painting rouge on my cheeks with her fingers, my internal definition of
happiness expanding to include one more cherished memory.
*This trip was taken prior to Covid-19 shut downs. Be fully informed, respectful, and
responsible if considering travel to Guna Yala or anywhere, but especially when
visiting indigenous people.
