We reach Isla Pinos at dawn, motoring gingerly past the breaking reef after an exhausting 38-hour passage from Cartegena. Accompanying me is Olivier, a young Swiss backpacker hitching a ride towards Costa Rica. In the lee of the island we join two boats, Margarita (the American family we met in Los Roques) and Hoptoad (an acquaintance from Club Nautico in Colombia). In the gray light we drop anchor in a small bay flanked by white sand. Thatched huts are just visible amid towering palms. We have arrived in the San Blas Islands, and together we will explore one of the best-kept secrets in the Western Hemisphere.
Stretching some 80 miles along the northeast coast of Panama, the San Blas are home to the Kuna Indians, a primitive, fiercely independent people who rule them virtually autonomous of the Panamanian government. My first order of business on Pinos is to visit the sahila, or village chief, to pay my respects. Mateo is like a strung out Marlon Brando in The Godfather. Reclining in a hammock in the shade of a dirt-floored home, whittling with a knife, he asks a few questions in Spanish before putting out his hand for the $6 "impuesto" which ensures my protection on his island. He bids me well, and dismisses me with a wave of his hand.
Kuna women spend much of their time sewing intricate textiles, called molas, which they incorporate into colorful blouses. Each mola requires about a month of work-- when you see the detailed needlework you understand why-- and there is a brisk business throughout the islands in mola sales. In Pinos, the women set up an impromptu mola emporium in the middle of the village on our second evening-- hundreds of the shirts on display in a large circle with each artist standing expectantly behind her goods. I wander around the circle with Sonny and Margie from Hoptoad. I buy one, they buy a few, and the bazaar shuts down with a clear sense of disappointment among the vendors.
From Pinos we sail to Ustupu, ten miles northwest along the coast, which, with about 8,000 inhabitants, is the largest village in the San Blas. As with most of the San Blas, the going is tough, with many reefs and shoals. It's similar to Los Roques, and requires a keen eye and constant attention. We pause in Astupu long enough to shuttle jerry cans of fresh water to Gypsy and leave Olivier for the regular flight to Panama City. Water duty is made easy by a troupe of little boys on the jetty, who commandeer my two six-gallon jugs and make a game of topping them off at the spigot and hauling them to the skiff.
Our tanks filled, I continue another four miles to Mamitupu, where I meet Hoptoad and Margarita. The guidebook describes the island as particularly strict, with villagers forbidden from visiting yachts, photography discouraged, and men "patrolling the village in the evenings with brica nettles in hand and ready to swat any unruly kids." However autocratic it might have been, the discipline seems to have broken down. Before I drop anchor, dugout canoes (called ulus) approach carrying women with molas, men selling fish or vegetables, and children eager to interact. Only three yachts have visited Mamitupu since the beginning of the year, so when three drop anchor on the same day it's as if the mothership has landed. For the duration of our stay there is an almost constant vigil of ulus rafted around our sailboats.
On Mamitupu, I have my first dose of Kuna children, and they are pure innocence. They expect nothing, and gush over the smallest gesture. When I return to my beached dinghy it is being used as a jungle gym-- six kids romping on it. They freeze at my sight-- unsure if they've crossed some cultural boundary. "You want a ride?" I ask in Spanish. They all nod, grinning, and help me drag the dinghy into the water. Under way, hysterical with bouncing waves, they point at Gypsy-- they want visit. I carefully offload them, give each a cookie, and we return to shore. When I motor to the island the following afternoon there is a large throng of kids awaiting me on the beach. I take as many as I can for another ride to Gypsy, and afterwards everywhere I go on the village there is a huge delegation of children in my wake. They hold my hands, tug at my clothing, and chatter away in Kuna-- describing places of interest as we pass.
There are also a few Kuna delinquents on Mamitupu-- teens who hang out in their ulus for hours beside our visiting boats, baseball caps perched backwards on their heads. They speak some Spanish, but refuse to engage in conversation. Instead they mock and mimic us-- jag-off gringos-- one ringleader makes quips in Kuna, and his cohorts giggle nervously.
But the Kuna are friendly people, and eager to connect. An older man, Ernesto, comes each night to chat after working his fields on 'Panama' (the Kuna don't consider their islands part of the country-- 'Panama' refers to the mainland). He speaks Spanish, and we talk about what my trip is like, why I don't have a woman (a popular question here), and the bombings in America (as isolated as they are, the Kuna seem to keep abreast of world news and have opinions about global politics). I give him an old issue of Vanity Fair, and he offers a seashell in return.
I also meet Pablo Perez, who was once married to a British woman. Pablo has a sparse, "modern" home (the only Kuna house I saw with concrete floors) isolated on the southern end of the island. He tells me that he separated from his first wife because the people in Mamitupu never accepted her, (I wonder if this might account for the distance of his house from the village). I fix a radio for him and he, in turn, escorts me through the village, introducing me to his wife, his family (including his 95-year-old grandmother), and anyone else who crosses our path. Later, he paddles out with his wife and daughter to join me for a twilight drink on Gypsy.
When I go to pay my impuesto in the village, the sahila is away, so Pablo takes me to the Congresso (a large, thatch-roofed hut where the men of the village meet). In each village the Congresso is responsible for establishing and enforcing laws in a democratic forum. In Mamitupu, the Congresso convenes every Saturday night, and all men are required to attend (if absent, they are charged a fee). Led by the sahila, these sessions are an opportunity to air grievances, lobby for civil improvements, and vote on community resolutions. They establish rules of conduct and levy penalties for infractions. Divorce, for example, requires an explanation to the village chiefs. Once sanctioned, the husband can't sleep with another woman for one year. If he does, he has to work on village projects (community service) ten hours a week for four months. I pay my respects (and $5) to Davis, the number two sahila. He explains the village rules, and asks a few polite questions about Gypsy. He, too, seems intent on setting me up with a nice Kuna girl when he hears that I'm traveling alone.
The women of Mamitupu paddle to Gypsy in ulus, hawking molas despite the fact that it is forbidden by the Congresso. Though the men tend to village politics, women wield considerable power in Kuna society. They are often the chief breadwinners (selling molas), and after marriage the husband moves to his wife's family's compound. They are also tenacious sellers, but lack subltlety. When I politely refuse molas, they mutter unflattering remarks under their breath.
From Mamitupu, we have a challenging 20-mile convoy through a maze of reefs and shoals. I follow Margarita, and several times they motor to a halt, deciphering a viable route. My two cruising partners head to San Ignacio de Tupile for grocery shopping, and I continue to Ratones Cays-- after days of scrutiny I'm looking for solitude. Ratones is a perfect antidote to "civilization"-- a coral-ringed oasis of palm trees and sand, not unlike Tom Hank's Cast Away island. A few fishermen built temporary huts while they ply the reefs for lobster, but they seem more focused on work than visiting yachts. Otherwise, my only company is the pelicans, a pair of falcons, and abundant marine life (shortly after anchoring I slip in the water and a spotted eagle ray glides past).
On a exploratory mission around the island, I pass a fisherman's hut where a boy is "playing" with a small, struggling sea turtle-- hitting it repeatedly with a stick. Determined to proceed as tactfully as possible, I call out an "hola," which is enough to send him scurrying into his palm-frond home. Soon his mother and more children peer timidly from the doorway, and the father emerges from the jungle, carrying a machete. "Hola," I offer again, and he reciprocates with a smile. His name is Joliano, a lobster fisherman, and he and his family split their time between Ratones and the Village of Playon Chico. When he tells me he sells fish, I ask how much for the sea turtle. He regards it as something hardly worth a meal, but ventures $2. "I'll take it," I say in Spanish, so he sends his wife to find the man who caught it.
In the meantime, I am swept away in the dynamic world of Juliano-- who, if the lobster get scarce, could make ends meet as a stand-up comic. Using his spear and coconuts as props he reenacts his daily existence on the reef-- plunging to 70 feet, his lungs screaming for air, he loops the coconut with the snare on his spear, secures it with a tug, and then strikes for the surface. When he learns that we are the same age (separated by only a month), he regards me as lost kin, and promises to take me on the reef and show me where the lobster hide.
When the owner of the turtle arrives, Juliano explains that I want to buy the turtle and set it free. (Not to be pegged a veegan, I suggest that the bigger ones are better eating.) The turtle owner seems suspicious, so I up the ante by offering $2 or a cold beer on my boat-- whatever he prefers. Clearly I've pegged his weakness-- with a gap-toothed smile he snatches the turtle by a hind flipper, drops it on the beach in breaking waves, and we all watch as it regains its senses and swims frantically to freedom.
Introductions aside, Juliano announces that it is time to visit my boat. We set off through the jungle at a brisk pace, Juliano expounding on his idyllic life. "This is my paradise," he shouts. "When I hungry, I pull fish from the water-- super fresh. When I thirsty, I pluck coconut and take drink. I have everything I need, and make good life with lobster."
Lobster diving is the choice career here. "Lobster planes" visit Kuna villages on a daily basis. They pay top dollar for live lobster, and whisk them to fancy restaurants in Panama City. Fishermen get $4 a pound from the planes ($1.50 for crab). As we walk to my dinghy, Juliano does the math for me-- today he caught six lobster and two crab, the lobster totaled seven and a half pounds, the crab three, for a grand total of $33. "Thirty three dollar-- some day soon I buy outboard motor."
A point of reference for those who haven't visited the San Blas: fresh bread is ten cents a loaf, beer is 25 cents a can, a bag of rice is $1 (the only thing that seems relatively expensive, in fact, is lobster-- which fishermen offer for lobster-plane prices). Thirty-three dollars a day in paradise is pretty much minting money.
On Gypsy, the fishermen are unabashedly awestruck. They finger the lines, give the wheel a turn, and scan the horizon with binoculars, one after the other. Once the beer loosens their tongues they have a million questions-- How do I sail alone? How far have I come? What was my work before? Why don't I have a woman? Is it dangerous? Juliano asks how I see at night, so I climb into the salonand switch on several lights. As if on cue, they all follow me below, marveling aloud at the ingenuity of my small home-- bed, kitchen, bathroom (the head seems to intrigue them most, particularly when I demonstrate pumping waste over the side). Back in the cockpit, Juliano asks the inevitable-- how much does she cost. "Mucho, mucho," I repy-- he seems to be adding up lobsters in his head.
The Kuna are not renowned for their drinking prowess, and after one beer, with the light fading, they clamber, tipsy, into the ulu and paddle for home with vague promises of future visits. I never see them again.
From Ratones, we spend another tough afternoon winding through reef and shoal. I leave Hoptoad and Margarita at Tigre, and continue several miles further to Nargana Island, one of the few places in the San Blas where diesel is available. After topping off the fuel and water tanks (shuttling jerry jugs in the dinghy), I motor up the Rio Diablo, a clear, slow-moving river that empties across from the village. Ostensibly, my mission is to wash laundry, but the lure of lush jungle and boundless fresh water makes the outing more a novelty than burden.
The mouth of the river is hidden in a maze of mangroves, but soon dense coastal scrub succumbs to towering palms and small groves of banana and lime trees tended by the Kuna. The river is an essential resource for the people of Nargana-- they depend on it for fresh water (some homes have it piped from the interior, others make regular trips to fill jugs), irrigation, washing, and transport. As I wind my way upstream, I pass several large ulus with men working or families in transit. Along the way, I pass several Kuna cemeteries high on the banks. I stop to visit one-- several recent graves built above ground and finished with white tile. Personal belongings are laid around them-- clothing, chairs, cooking utensils-- things that might prove useful in the afterlife.
From Nargana, I join Hoptoad and Margarita at Coco Banderos Cays, on the outer edge of the San Blas. Tucked behind a palm-clad island, completely surrounded by reef, our anchorage is another tranquil retreat. For several lazy days I divide my time reading, snorkeling, and visiting with the other boats. Water collecting becomes a regular ritual as well. Hoping to avoid water runs to town, we all pray for rain. When it comes, I plug the drains on Gypsy and open her water holes. Generally a 20-minute shower will top off the tanks. I also geek out with Jeff and Sean, the two boys aboard Hoptoad, who initiate me in the tangled world of high-end computer games. We spend several evenings sampling the various genres-- role playing, shoot-em-up, strategy-- aboard Gypsy, and I subsequently spend several late nights conquering worlds and blowing away belligerent bystanders.
From Banderos we continue to Holandes Cays, the most popular destination for cruising boats in the San Blas. Eastern Holandes has a renowned anchorage, protected on all sides by islands and reef, with turquoise water so clear it is affectionately known as the "swimming pool." A dozen boats are anchored there-- some have stayed, on and off, for several years. When I speak with Dan, one of the old-timers, he says, "I've thought about moving to another anchorage from time to time, but I when it comes right down to it there isn't a better place."
Spear fishing is subsistence recreation here, and always a hot conversation topic among the boats. Every day, neoprene-clad hunters, wielding spears, motor dinghies to the outer reef in search of food and sport. By late afternoon rumors circulate about who shot what where, and the bottom of the swimming pool is littered with fish remains. (One notable distinction between a real swimming pool and Holandes is the sharks-- bull, gray reef, and nurse-- that patrol the anchorage feeding on carcasses).
There is a clear pecking order among the hunters; with Dan and Mike (another old-timer) the unquestionable spear czars. They both regularly return with 20-pound dog-tooth snapper. I listen intently to discussion about the advantages of their techniques: Dan drops to the bottom and waits, minutes at a time, for curious fish to approach, Mike hides motionless on the reef, waylaying lunkers as they come to investigate. Swept up by the primordial urge, I borrow a spear when I can and join the hunt. Lacking Dan's lung capacity, I opt for the ambush method, and suffer considerable 'reef rash' as a result (I realize, too late, that neoprene is body armor, not warmth provider). After several meager outings, I manage to bag about a 20-pound parrotfish, a colorful, cartoonish reef fish that fries up nicely. Immediately, I gain stature among the swimming pool tribe.
Halloween is a swimming pool highlight. Margarita spearheads games on nearby Potluck island, and the ten of us pair off for a fiercely competitive afternoon. There's coconut bowling, and a blindfolded obstacle course, and three-legged team frisbee golf. Then we retreat to our boats to assemble costumes, before circling the anchorage in a dinghy convoy as the full moon rises, plump and yellow. We are a motley crew: a couple of babies, a bee keeper, fishing lures, a super-hero, a space cowboy, a "friendly" Arab, and me, a sultry Blair witch. We ambush boats with shrieks of "trick or treat!" and manage to take home a respectable haul of candy (and a bottle of rum) despite having to explain the quid pro quo to the French and German cruisers.
Then we shed our costumes, and assemble on Margarita for a twilight concert. The Hoptoad and Margarita kids formed a band (despite tight boat confines, everyone has an instrument), and with my small repertoire of 60s-era songs I've been elected ringleader with my guitar. We practiced once, but to belt out respectable versions of Let it Be, Helpless, and El Condor Passo ("I'd rather be a hammer than a nail-- yes I would!") with full orchestra: three guitars, clarinet, flute, harmonica, recorder, and digerdoo (an aboriginal trumpet). Then the five "adults" separate for a five-hour domino war in which the trick or treat rum and two subsequent bottles are consumed with gusto. Halloween ends at 3:00 AM, with the old folks skinny-dipping and the kids shaking their heads on deck. I take the plunge with nothing on but my glasses-- which I thankfully recover the following morning on the sand bottom below Margarita.
From Holandes I motor to Mormake Tupu, which in Kuna means "shirt makers' island." Is it ever. I haven't dropped anchor before mola makers are converging in their ulus. My first visitor is unlike any other. His name is Idelfonso, and after handing me a bag of limes (a gift), he climbs aboard with two five-gallon buckets filled with his molas. We spend the better part of an hour admiring his inventory, as mola makers queue up in ulus around Gypsy. He speaks some English, and describes his work in a lisping voice as he caresses the fabric with painted fingernails: "This, oh, this is a siren, I don't know how you say in English, and the face-- look, look!-- so much work." When we start talking prices he is a coy and obstinate: "Twenty dollars?! I spend two years on this one!" Idelfonso is a Kuna drama queen of the first order, but I must admit-- he makes some damn fine molas.
I blow my entire budget on Idelfonso, but I'm obliged to invite other mola makers aboard to show their wares. The work is the best I've seen, and the women are about a persistent as Kuna women can get (which is no small compliment). In the end, I buy one from each. I go through about ten buckets of molas before the light fades, and then, bright and early, more mola makers paddle frantically to Gypsy. Clearly, word has gotten around about the Gringo that can't say no. Despite insisting that I can't , I but buy several more at bargain prices. For those of you expecting Christmas gifts, I hope you appreciate indigenous textiles.
My last stop is Chichime Cays, another turquoise-watered, coral-ringed, coconut palmed paradise inhabited by a few friendly Kuna (forgive me if this is getting redundant, but even the sublime can become blase). I realize it's my final few days to treasure the islands (and enjoy warm Caribbean waters), but aside from a successful spear fishing outing with the Hoptoad boys I squander my time reading aboard Gypsy. It has been a memorable four weeks in the San Blas, but for now I am sated.
As tropical destinations go, the San Blas fall into the upper echelon of pristine global treasures. I have yet to visit the outer islands of Fiji, or the Vanuatu archipelago, but from what circumnavigators tell me, the San Blas are on par with these celebrated locales. What distinguishes the San Blas from other Caribbean jewels (Los Roques, for example) is more than the sheer abundance of spectacular hideaways-- it is the Kuna, and their relation with the land, that make them so special. At a time when indigenous cultures are in crisis-- with poverty, alcoholism, and other symptoms of civilization plaguing many of the American tribes, the Kuna are an encouraging reminder of how culture and tradition can prevail. People say it's the strict authority of the Congresso that maintains Kuna pride. That, and isolation from the outside world. But I have a different theory. I think it's the islands themselves-- the beauty and abundance-- that accounts for their well being. After four weeks in this modern-day Eden I am rejuvenated and utterly at peace.
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November 4 - Paradise Found
