“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.
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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.
lilnablog 