San Blas – Where time forgot

Our return to Santa Marta from our trip to the Amazon, marked the beginning of the end of our month in Colombia.   We were now on weather watch, waiting for a good window for the 2.5 day passage to Panama and it didn’t look like we would have to wait too long.  

We needed to stock up on provisions as we knew it would be a number of weeks before we were going to be anywhere near shops, as we were heading to some very remote places with no roads, airplanes or ports close by.    We made several trips to the supermarket and stocked up on all the essentials and then went back for more to fill any spare cupboards or storage spaces!   We bought fruit and vegetables which would last at least a week as these would become luxury items in the weeks to come! 

A few boats we knew arrived in Santa Marta just as we were preparing to go, so we spent our final couple of evenings socialising before checking out of Colombia on one of the last days of November 2022.   We had waved goodbye to Zen Again earlier that day as, being a little smaller and slower in the forecast conditions than us, they felt they wanted to leave by mid-day to ensure they arrived in Panama by Friday morning.   We decided to wait until 10pm to leave and slipped out with our fuel tanks filled to the brim with the cheapest fuel we’ll get, probably ever again!  

The wind was steady and we made excellent speed, breaking our best 24hr distance covered record by making 161NM.  In fact we were going too fast and decided to try to slow down.  We calculated we would not be able to reach landfall before sunset on Thursday and did not want to arrive in Puerto Obaldi at night time as we had heard the anchorage was quite rolly and uncomfortable.   Our decision to go to Puerto Obaldi was made due to the cheaper check-in options plus starting our exploration of the San Blas region of Panama from here, right on the border with Colombia, meant we had access to some of the most remote Guna Indian villages which was a real drawcard for us.  

Zen Again managed to arrive just as the light was fading on Thursday evening, but we were a few miles behind and decided to stand off the coast and heave-to for seven hours as we waited for daylight before heading into the exposed harbour.   (Heaving-to is a method of stopping the boat while having sails up to keep the boat in a comfortable, balanced position).  As it turned out, I’m glad we made this decision as we both managed to get a solid three hours of good sleep before we re-set the sails and headed into the harbour just as Avanti, another boat who left Santa Marta after us, arrived.  

Checking-in was a long, hot procedure and involved a visit to the police in a concrete bunker looking building with no windows or doors but a desk under a hole in the wall, where they inspected our passports.   Next, we needed to visit the immigration office where a queue had started outside the closed door.   Every so often someone would come out of the office, look at the line of people and go back in, shutting the door behind them.   We had just gotten to the front of the queue when, after about a wait of 45 minutes in the hot sun, the immigration officer appeared and apologised profusely for the delay, but now he had to go to the airport and would be back in 30 minutes.   I think he could tell we were crest-fallen, because 10 minutes later he was back and said he would process us quickly, which he did!   From there we went to the Port Captain to get a cruising permit.  He had no computer or typewriter and carefully completed about seven forms in neat handwriting, all designed for a dot matrix printer with perforated strips down the side of the carboned paper and all asking for the same information.   Quite what happened to the forms or the copies after we left, I have no idea!   After paying US$200 for a one year cruising permit for the whole of Panama – Caribbean and Pacific coasts – we were told to go to the copyshop as we needed to give the police a copy of our permit.   Back at the copyshop we were then charged US$10 for anchoring in the bay while we checked in!    Armed with all our papers we returned to the police and gave them copies of everything which they carefully examined, added our names to a large, thick notebook, smiled and told us we were free to go!     And go we did.   As soon as we were back on the boat, we sailed out of the bay to find a more protected anchorage so we could enjoy a good night’s sleep!

Panama is a beautiful country which many cruisers skip through on their way to the canal.  This is a huge mistake as there are hundreds of unspoilt bays and villages untouched by time that are begging to be explored.   Using the only accurate charts made of this area from a cruising guide we exchanged for guides we no longer required when in Grenada, we headed up the coast following the hillsides covered in virgin rainforest.   We anchored near the end of an inlet at Puerto Escoses close to a group of huts that had been built over the water just off the sandy beach.   All the huts were empty, but some were still being built and we could see dug out canoes close by so assumed the huts were still being used but just not when we were there!    It was deliciously peaceful with only the sounds of the forest to disturb the peace as we headed to bed and slept for nine solid hours!

The Guna people are indigenous to Panama.   They are fiercely protective of their culture and have tried to prevent western influence in their lives.   They live in small communities which often don’t mix with other Guna communities, and the women wear colourful clothing with intricately embroidered designs on the front and back, called Molas.   They live very simple lives – the men fish in small wooden dug out canoes or tend their coconut plantations, the women look after the family and prepare the meals.   They have large families and, as we witnessed, due to the desire to keep the village tribes “pure” there appeared to be a lot of close family couplings, as we saw a number of birth defects in the young.    The houses are very simple, often one storied with a thatched roof and built on land very close to the sea.   Extended families live together so houses are made larger as the family grows or daughters marry – daughters remain in the houses of their parents and new husbands move into their family home.  Walking though the villages made me feel like we were in a place that time forgot.   Fortunately the Panama government has not quite forgotten them and a few years ago paid for solar panels to be installed in most Guna communities.  This has made a huge difference to the villages who are very proud of the energy these panels produce.

Each village has a Congress House and villages (men and women) must attend meetings there every day.  This is the place to sort out problems, concerns, plans or celebrations in the village.  The chief or Sahila, will oversee proceedings from a hammock in the centre of the large thatched building. The meetings can be long and tedious as they cover every day matters and issues from disagreements to travel passes, so members of the community are employed to let out loud shrieks at regular intervals, or prod people with long sticks to ensure everyone stays awake and alert!   

The previous night we had heard several bangs that sounded like gunshots and cheering from the beach near our boat.   It transpired that a large cat (we were told a Jaguar) had swam across to the island, passing our boat and making its way to the beach, when it was shot and killed – not to protect humans but to protect their farm animals.   I was very sad to see pictures of the beautiful animal the next day and relieved to learn it was a very rare happening.   

It surprised us that we saw no chickens in the villages – a common sight in Colombia and everywhere else we have visited.  Pigs often seen in small bamboo huts on stilts above the water.   This is for two reasons – the first to keep them clean as their droppings fall straight into the water, but the second is to avoid crocodiles taking them.   This is also the reason there are no chickens as they will encourage crocodiles into the village.

We motor sailed a short distance to the settlement of Ustupu, the largest village in San Blas.   We spent a happy few hours getting lost in the labyrinth of small streets and passages that wind between the thatched houses, enjoying walking without fear of a vehicle speeding down the road, with the only engine noises being generators to service the many restaurants in the village!    A woman appeared at an open window and beckoned us inside the small square building.   She was sewing beautiful Molas on an antique Singer sewing machine and had several on display.  I couldn’t resist and bought a brightly coloured one from her for $10, which I will treasure.   As we continued through a small, dusty square, a man and his son called us over and they proceeded to play a beautiful tune on their roughly made blow pipes, telling us there would be dancing in the square later.   We walked on to the northern coastline where waves break on sharp rocks that were covered in litter.   I tried to explain to the young boys who were playing football close by and had come over to see who these strange white giants were, how seeing all that rubbish made me sad, but they looked at me as if I had just confirmed I really was from another planet!

As the only boat anchored in the shallow dirty bay, we became a local attraction as men and young boys slowly paddled past us, shouting their greetings and waving as they grinned at us with friendly curiosity.   We purchased a few lobsters from a man who approached us in his dugout canoe, clinging onto the side of Cerulean as he showed us his catch.  One of them tried to make a break for it and I was almost tempted to let it go back into the water, as they were all quite small, but the thought of fresh lobster for dinner prevented me from doing so!   That night, under a full moon and clear skies, we ate like kings and listened to the merriment ashore.

We discovered it was Mother’s Day and, on taking the dinghy up a small river in the north of the bay, saw a large gathering on the bank, near a small coconut and banana plantation in a clearing in the jungle.   The women enthusiastically waved us to come over and, as we scrambled up the steep muddy bank to join them, they thrust a bowl of food in our hands.   The women were all dressed in red with beautiful Molas on the front and back of their robes, red beads around their legs, red headscarf and red rouge on their cheeks.  They cooked in a huge pan over an open fire as the men and with children sat around watching them.   Through google translate, we were able to communicate with the husband of one of the women cooking.  I asked why the women were working on their special day and he answered, “They love to work.  If they don’t, they die!”    It then turned out we were actually in a graveyard, surrounded by their mothers and ancestors as we celebrated and remembered them.   Youngs guys were renovating an old tomb, fixing fresh leaves onto the thatched roof.   It was incredibly special to share that time with the happy group of different generations of brightly dressed women and we returned down the river, following a trail of red petals that were floating downstream in memory of all their mothers that had passed.

As we moved further west along the mainland Panama coast, we past a number of villages, all built perilously close to the pounding surf and often every square inch of the small island taken up with houses.   Occasionally we saw evidence of where there was once land and now the sea was washing away a construction that had stood there – bridges to nowhere stood as memorials of days recently gone by and the remains of a dock now stood attached to nothing but the sea floor.   As these scenes unfolded, I couldn’t help but ponder on the overwhelming sadness and irony of the situation – here were a peaceful race of people who have shunned Western influence and tradition, yet they are now at the sharp end of having to deal with the very real issue of rising sea levels while plastic washes ashore on their beaches, carried there by the strong currents from Colombia and further afield.