I slept soundly on the bus for several hours. Bright lights flicked on at 5am, and the bus driver announced “Frontera!” Everyone on the bus disembarked and got into line outside a small office behind 30 people already waiting. The lights of the building were off and the front windows shuttered. Nobody arrived to open the office and began stamping passports until 6:30am.
After receiving my exit stamp from Costa Rica, I walked 500m to the Panamanian side of the border. I waited in line for another 45-minutes before reaching the window of the office. Here, I had to prove I had $500 in cash on me, had an onward travel ticket, have my fingerprints taken, and generally received angry looks and curt remarks from a couple border agents.
Finally, they let me pass. Then I had to wait another 45-minutes for the rest of the passengers on our bus to receive their entry stamps. Fortunately, there was a street vendor selling coffee and chocolates. Breakfast of champions.
Then everyone on the bus had to remove their bags from the luggage compartment, and take them into a small, bare government room with tables, an ominous side room that was clearly for strip-searches, and three serious looking guys sitting behind a desk.
Once everyone was in the room with bags open on the table, three more border agents with shotguns and a German Shepherd entered the room and closed the doors. A grey-haired man with pockmarked face and mean eyes sitting in the center behind the desk started speaking, almost yelling, instructions in Spanish. I had my Kindle in my hand that I had been reading during all the waiting, and the man noticed it. He gestured to the Kindle and began yelling at me in Spanish in front of everyone. I shrugged and set it down on the table behind me. He kept yelling. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but inferred he wasn’t satisfied. I then put the Kindle inside my backpack. He seemed satisfied, but continued to stare me down and curse at me in Spanish for another 20-seconds before returning to his instructions to the group.
Once he was done, the border agents began searching peoples bags. An older American expat remarked to me, “I’ve been living here five years, and this whole charade is just ridiculous. If anything, the drugs would be leaving the country from the canal!”
Some people had their bags searched thoroughly, but when they got to mine a border agent basically poked the clothing in my big backpack with a wand for about 5-seconds before telling me to pass.
After another 30-minutes of waiting for the searches to be finished and everyone to reboard, the bus was allowed to enter Panama. The border crossing was by far the most arduous process of any country I’d been to yet, and left me with not-the-best first impression of the country.
The bus lumbered towards Panama City for another 8-hours. The bus had wifi and entertainment stations in the back of the seats, so the ride wasn’t too bad. However, the air conditioning stopped working at one point, making the last two hours uncomfortably hot.
While looking out the window as we passed through the tropical countryside and then into the urban jungle of Panama City, Van Halen was playing in my head. We finally arrived at a huge bus terminal, Albrook Station, at 4:30pm.
As I got off the bus I walked into a wall of heat. It was like entering a boiler room or a hot kitchen. Perspiration instantly began seeping from every pore of my body. I thought Costa Rica and Nicaragua were hot, but this was another level.
I grabbed my bags and headed down to the taxi area, and chatted with two Swedish girls waiting in line. They were going to the same neighborhood as me, so we split a taxi. The taxi stopped at my hostel first, and I got my bags from the trunk before paying my share of the agreed upon price. The taxi driver then started yelling, saying it was not enough and it would be more for having to make two stops. The Swedish girls spoke good Spanish, and they told me that they had made it clear to him there were two stops before agreeing on the price—he was trying to bait and switch. They said they could handle it. As I entered my hostel, I looked back over my shoulder and the taxi driver was still yelling. Ay Yay Yay Panama.
After checking in, I took a short nap. After sun set and much of the daytime heat subsided, I went to the patio and practiced yoga and meditation. Then I took an amazing shower and just stood under cold water for a long time. I went out to explore the neighborhood and find dinner.
After walking around for 30-minutes, I was a bit disappointed. I was staying in one of the nicer areas of the city, and was amazed at how dirty it was. The electrical infrastructure reminded me of something I might see in Guatemala City. Several parks I encountered seemed to be poorly maintained with little vegetation. Streets and sidewalks in disrepair. Pools of water due to backed up sewers.
All this might be normal for other Central American cities, but this was Panama City, a major financial center and the wealthiest city in Latin America. I certainly noticed the money of the city on display in tacky manner. It seemed like some sort of Hispanic spinoff hybrid of New York and Las Vegas. There are several huge marble floored malls—cathedrals of consumerism—that are the main gathering places of the city. Every other car I saw was a Mercedes or Audi. Many Chanel or Louis Vuiton caliber stores in the lobbies of ritzy hotels with armed guards out front. Alluring billboards for Rolex and Burberry. Flashing lights of casinos. Scantily clad (legal) prostitutes loitering.
Meanwhile the working poor were selling fruit from carts on the sides of the road. It was an extremely stark contrast between the haves and have nots. More so than wealthy places in the US like New York. “This must be what Dubai is like,” I thought to myself. “What a shame,” I thought, “If they reinvested just 1-2% of the annual Panama Canal money into the city it’d be one of the nicest places on earth.”
I had dinner at a nice little unassuming mom and pop place. It was a nice departure from the honking of taxi drivers and epileptic lights of a casino across the street. The lady who served me seemed surprised to see a gringo, but was happy to have me. I had a spicy braised beef dish served over rice that hit the spot.
I retreated to my hostel to read and pass a few hours idly before bed.
After lunch the next day, I set out to further explore the city. I walked along malecón Avenida Balboa for about four miles all the way north from Bellavista to Punta Pacifica. I stopped in a few parks and explored a few of the nicer neighborhoods that reminded me of the Gold Coast in Chicago.
Near Punta Pacifica I found an old, crumbling concrete pier that jutted a few hundred feet into the bay. I walked out on it, and sat at the end watching the waves and admiring the skyline.
Afterwards, I stopped at Multi Plaza Mall. Several Panamanians told me I had to go to the mall. They’re very proud of it. I was in the neighborhood, so I stopped in. Not my scene, but I will admit it was one of the nicest and most luxurious malls I’ve ever seen with an interesting assortment of international brands.
In the evening, I had Chinese food and a couple beers with hostel folk, but just felt like laying low and declined to go to a club.
The next morning, I did my standard yoga and meditation practices on the patio, before making coffee and reading. I then went out to find a ‘Chino’ or little bodega-like convenience store to buy a SIM card for my phone. I returned to the hostel for breakfast before playing poker all day. It continued to be a humbling slog through low stakes tournaments. I lost a little bit on the day.
The next day, I again went for a walk down the malecón. This time southward for about three miles to Casco Viejo, or Old Town. This is the beautiful colonial part of Panama City. Most of the government buildings are still located there. Casco Viejo is a tourist wet dream, teeming with bed and breakfasts, bars, cafes, and restaurants. And, of course, Panama Hat and cigar shops. It’s a great place to spend a peaceful afternoon at a café, and then go out for a chaotic night of partying.
I wandered the streets of Casco Viejo, stopping at a café and later a heladería for gelato. I sat in a park and read for a while. Later I stopped at a Iglesia San Francisco and said a prayer as the sun was setting. I found a trendy spot to have sushi and a cocktail for dinner.
I walked back home, and passed by Majestic Casino on the way. I wandered inside and inquired if they had poker. They did. There was a $1/$3 No Limit Holdem game running with seven Panamanian players. I joined and they were all surprised to see a white boy show up. It was a little awkward at first, since all the players at the table knew each other, and now arrived an unknown who didn’t speak the language well.
First hand I was dealt, I lost a sizable pot with pocket tens. It seemed like they wanted to test my gamble right off the bat. I had a super fun time getting to learn the terms of the game is Spanish: apuesta, subo, paso, pago (bet, raise, fold, call), and make table talk with the gents.
I played for about two hours before I headed home. I played a lot of hands and brought action to the table. I was in the green most of the time, but ended up losing about $120, mostly as the result of one hand where I turned top two pair and my opponent had a set. He could have won my whole stack, but played like a nit and just called my river bet, saving me a couple hundred bucks.
The next day, I went to see the Panama Canal. It’s one of those things you just have to do in Panama City. To get there, I took the metro to Albrook Station and then took a chicken bus that dropped me off on the side of the road from where I walked 10-minutes to find the visitor center of the canal. I must say, the metro in Panama City is superb. While the rest of the infrastructure seemed to be lacking, the metro was modern, clean, and super-efficient, putting metros of the US to shame.
I arrived at about 10am and went to the observation deck to watch a massive freighter passing through the canal. As I was watching the ship in transit, I kept thinking how my Dad nerds out at things like this and would love to see this. A person with a microphone commentates on the process as each ship passes. I was interested to hear each ship typically pays between $250k and $1M depending on size in cold hard cash to use the canal.
Each ship takes between 45-minutes and 1.5 hours to pass through the lock system of the canal, so it is a bit of a boring process. After seeing one ship navigate the locks, you get it. But it is impressive. The ships that pass through are so huge that I was in awe at the scale of it all. It truly is a marvel of engineering.
On the way back, outside of Albrook Station is Albrook Mall. Another of the city’s great shrines of consumerism. I stopped in to get out of the heat and find some ice-cream. I ended up wandering the mall, taking in the spectacle, for an hour before hopping on the metro back to my hostel.
The next morning, I moved into Zebulo hostel, which was only a block away from Sortis Hotel & Casino, where the Pokerstars Championship (PSC) series was being held.
After checking in, I noticed one of the volunteers at the hostel. A big, muscular, bald gentleman of about 45—not the typical volunteer at a hostel. I struck up a conversation with him and met Herman, a super interesting character from Chicago(!). This guy had stories. Lots of crazy, entertaining stories. I won’t even begin to go into how he wound up stranded in Panama City. “Marciniak would LOVE this guy,” I thought as he was telling me stories. Herman and I would become good friends over the course of my time at the hostel.
I went out to explore the neighborhood and see if I could find a park to practice yoga. About ten minutes away from the hostel, I found a big park, Parque Andres Bello, on the popular street Via Argentina. I set up my mat and did my thing. I had a small audience watching me in astonishment by the time I finished. I would practice yoga in this park every day over the next couple weeks.
Story: After about a week of daily yoga in the park, I was setting up my mat one day and a young man approached me. He explained he had watched me one day and inquired if I would be practicing yoga again. I answered in the affirmative, and he asked if I could teach him. I was hesitant at first, my daily practice had become sacrosanct and was my personal time. I gave the disclaimer that it wouldn’t solely be yoga, that I would be doing breathwork in the beginning and functional movement exercises/calisthenics in the middle of my practice. He was in pretty good shape, looked like he went to the gym a few times a week, and told me, “No problema.” He introduced himself, Kevin, 25, from Panama City, and we began the practice.I guided him through a couple sets of Pranayama breathwork. After doing a set of Wim Hof method breathwork, he looked over at me wide eyed, “Whoa, alto!” (Whoa, I’m high!), from all the oxygen. I laughed and we continued. He spoke decent English, so I taught him Salute the Sun A & B in Spanglish, emphasizing the breath.After the warmup, we proceeded to do my recent exercise routine: 3 sets of 10 burpees, 20 squat jumps, 20 mountain climbers, 50 flutter kicks, 20 Navy Seal style sit ups and pushups, 10 one legged Romanian deadlifts. We were both gassed after three sets. I started to go into the rest of my yoga routine, and he seemed astonished and wanted to rest for a while. “Told you so,” I chuckled, and continued. He resumed in a couple of minutes.I led him through about another 40-minutes of yoga while explaining the significance of the poses, and Kevin struggled mightily. I will admit, I did a rather intense practice with long holds in several difficult poses, but I wanted to demonstrate how focusing on the breath enables one to go deeper. Although he was open to trying yoga with me, he also seemed like a bit of the stereotypical macho Hispanic-type, so I also wanted to show him yoga was not just for hippies and girls and was in fact a warrior practice.After chavasana, I asked him how he felt, and he nodded his head for a few moments, “I feel like… really good… and peaceful, man… but also tired. I was not expecting that.” I laughed and invited him to meditate with me, explaining it’d help recharge him, but he’d had his fill and we said goodbye. I saw Kevin in the park once more, but he wasn’t up for another yoga session.
In the evening, I went over to the Sortis Casino to check out the venue of the poker series. There was a swanky business convention center dedicated to the event. I registered for a tournament the following night.
I discovered a group of food carts near the casino. A fast-talking barker for a Venezuelan food cart got me to eat at his place. He was the owner and the chef as well, so it was no stretch to say he took pride in his enterprise. I told him I was hungry and let him choose something for me. He made me a Patacón Venezuelan—a fried plantain patty, covered with pieces of steak and chicken, avocado, onion, cilantro, and strips of fried corn tortilla with salsa picante and spicy mayonnaise. Damn motherfucker, home run! Only problem was after that meal and two beers I was nearly in a coma.
The next morning, I woke early and went to the park to do my thing. I returned home to make a big breakfast, read and write a bit, and then headed to the Casino to play poker tournament that started at 1pm. I played in a $220 NLHE event with about 250 players and finished in 30th place, just outside of the money.
The Latin American players, mostly Panamanian and Colombians, played an interesting brand of poker. Macho might be one word to describe it. If you checked the action to them or showed any weakness whatsoever, they would just begin betting large and keep betting, or other times call and raise you just to see if you had the cajones to play back at them. At first, I got blown off a few hands where normally my opponents’ betting patterns would mean a strong hand. Then I saw some hilariously bad play and realized these guys had no strategy whatsoever and were just playing to stroke their egos. I started trapping them with great success, but, in the end, I played a few big hands where I got my money in as a favorite and lost.
Over the next 10 days, my life was pretty much the same. Wake, park for yoga and meditation, breakfast and chill, casino for a poker tournament, and get my stack in as a favorite and bust out just before the money. I played in tournaments ranging from $120 to $650 each day. I made the money only once for a losing series. I feel I played well, and unfortunately just got unlucky in nearly all my most significant pots. Such is the short-term variance of poker.
I did play one hand in which I made a large blunder. In a $600 satellite tournament to the $5300 PSC main event. I was doing well in the tournament. When we were down to 36 players, I got moved tables to a seat facing the corner of the room with a pillar behind me that blocked my view of the monitors that display the tournament information. About 20-minutes later, I moved all-in over a raise in a ‘standard’ spot in a normal tournament. But, what I didn’t realize was that 12 people had busted extremely rapidly over the last 20 minutes. We were down to just 24 players and 20 people would win a $5300 entry to the main event. Being stuck in a corner and unable to see the monitors, I didn’t realize I was so close the payouts. I thought I still needed to accumulate chips to win an entry to the main event, when in fact my strategy should have changed to play extremely tight and just try to hold on until another four players busted. I should not have moved all-in in the spot that I did. Of course, my all-in was called and I busted the tournament.
As I was leaving the tournament room, I saw the monitor, realized I had busted out just four people from the money and my heart sank. I felt like I was punched in the gut. My blunder costed me more than $4000 in equity. Oh, well. What can I say, I’m a live poker noob. I’d never been in that situation in a satellite tournament before, and wasn’t as attentive to the particulars of the tournament as I should have been whether I was stuck in a corner of the room or not. That’s the School of Hard knocks.
Over the course of the week, I met a couple really nice guys, David from British Colombia and Lawrence from Arizona, who were staying at my hostel and also playing in the PSC. We became buds, discussing hands and sweating each other when we made it deep in tournaments. I even played at the same table as them a few times, which was a lot of fun.
In the second week of the series, Lawrence introduced me to a group of poker players he knew: Ian from Mexico, Adam from the UK, and Miguel and Jona from Belgium. We all went out for drinks, played shuffleboard in the hotel bar, and chilled several times. These guys were all big timers—strong, accomplished players with large bankrolls.
At the end of Saturday, Jona was still in the $5300 buy-in main event. The tournament was down to just 24 players and the top prize was almost a half million dollars. We all went out for beers, and ended up catting around until I was among the first to head home at 3am. I was shocked Jona stayed out with us when he had to play the next day at noon, but that’s just the kind of guy he is.
The next day, I took the day off from the casino, and instead played online poker all day at the hostel. I sweated a live stream of the PSC main event all day, and watched as Jona made it to the final table. Wow. Dude was one of six players remaining to play for the top prize the next day.
Monday, after my morning activities, I headed to the casino at 1pm to watch Jona at the final table. The whole crew was there to ‘rail’ (‘railbirds’ are people who hangout on the sidelines watching the action). We immediately started ordering beers and shots to celebrate. When Jona won a pot we’d let out hoots and hollers.
By the first break two hours into the final table they were down to five players. Jona was comfortably second in chips. He joined the crew on the balcony of the bar to yuk it up and have a cigarette. He was remarkably calm given the circumstances. On his way back to the tournament, Jona gave Adam a $100 bill for more ‘refreshments’ for the rail. We ordered another couple of rounds and resumed railing the final table.
Over the next couple of hours, Jona played a few big pots, but unfortunately was on the losing end of most the hands. In the end, he check-raised all in with a flush draw and was called by top pair, but didn’t improve to bust in 4th place for ~$120,000. Like all poker tournaments in which you make a deep run, but can’t claim the victory, it was a bittersweet. Nevertheless, it was incredible to see a guy I was hanging out with win six figures.
Jona left the tournament area a bit disappointed, but still cool as ice. A true boss. The crew on the rail was there to console him and boost his spirits. After doing exit interviews and then going to the payout desk, Jona joined the group in the bar toting a paper bag with $40,000 in four stacks of fresh hundred Dollar bills (he had the rest of the money wired to his bank). It was quite a site. We all had a few celebratory rounds and played shuffleboard for a couple hours.
Later, we all went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant. We ordered way too much food and many drinks, and Jona gladly paid the tab. What a guy.
Afterwards, we went back to Jona and Ian’s rental apartment, smoked a spliff and hung out for a bit. Later we headed back to the casino bar where Jona made it rain some more. After a few games of shuffleboard, I said goodnight to the crew, thanked Jona for everything, and called it a night. It was interesting to hang out with a group of poker players with huge bankrolls who travel the world playing poker tournaments. As you might imagine, they were quite a raucous bunch with a lot of exciting stories from their journeys. I soaked it all up like a bit of a fan boy. It was a great time.
The next day, I woke up hungover and did my morning routines. It was the last day of the tournament series, and there was one final tournament to play, but I wasn’t feeling up to par.
Instead, I opted to plot my departure from Panama. To get from Panama to Colombia, you either have to fly or take a boat—there is no overland passage. I fancy myself a bit of a salty bastard, so of course opted to take a boat. At ~$600, it wasn’t the cheapest option, but would be well worth the experience. I booked a sailboat, the Amande 2, departing in two days for Cartagena, Colombia. It would be a five-day trip—three days spent in the incredible San Blas Islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama before about 18 hours (2 nights) at sea to arrive in Cartagena.
I spent the next couple days chilling and gathering supplies (read: a couple bottles of fine Panamanian rum), to take on the sailing voyage. One night, I got second in an online poker tournament to recoup most of my losses at the PSC. Another night, I dipped into the rum with Herman, and he recounted the story of the time he was locked in a condemned Puerto Rican prison for three months. Man, that guy is great.
On the morning of my departure, I awoke at 5am, readied my things, and waited for the shuttle to Puerto Porvenir. It was supposed to arrive at 5:30am, but no one had showed by 6:15am. I worried I somehow missed the shuttle and would miss the boat. I checked my email and found a message informing me that there was an anti-corruption protest taking place about the government failing to provide promised funding to build a school. The protest blocked the highway to Puerto Porvenir. Our boat would be sailing to Puerto Lindo, where we would depart from instead. The shuttle to Puerto Lindo would be arriving at 10am. Damn, I woke up early for nothing.
The van arrived about 10:15am, and I boarded into an empty van. We proceeded to cruise around Panama City as we picked up six other passengers on my boat. We chatted a bit, but were otherwise silent (it was rainy out and the vibe was muted) during the hour-long trip to Puerto Lindo. I wondered if I had drawn a crew of boners for the five-day voyage.
In Puerto Lindo, we unloaded the van outside of a dockside restaurant in the rain. We met another four passengers for the trip at the restaurant. Our captain, Humberto from Bogotá, introduced himself and the cook, his sister, Maria. He explained that due to the inclement weather and a strong headwind outside the port, we would be hanging in Puerto Lindo until about 6pm, then have dinner on the boat, then set sail at about midnight to arrive in the San Blas islands by 8am the following morning. It was about noon, so we had six hours to kill.
The group grabbed a table inside the restaurant, ordered lunch and a bunch of beers, and we got to know one another. There was Wes (33) and his girlfriend Nicole (27) and their friend Cassie (27) from Connecticut, Gianlucca (24) and his girlfriend Larissa (21) from Switzerland, Ashley (25) and his cousin Ashton (20) from Edmonton, Elka (28) and Vanessa (26) from Germany, and Raoul (29) from Switzerland. We later met the first mate, David from Spain. It was David’s first trip with Humberto.
After a few beers, everyone loosened up, and I was happy to discover it was actually a fun group and I didn’t get stuck with a group of boners after all. Wes had spent 8 years in the US Coast Guard, so knew all about the maritime life, and I told him he was going to be my sailing instructor during the trip.
At 5:30pm the rain finally subsided. We all had a nice buzz going, and finally loaded up the dingy to be ferried to the sailboat. We got situated in our cabins, and then gathered in the salon for dinner. During dinner, Humberto and David laid out the rules of the boat and safety guidelines, and we spent time asking about the boat, sailing, and what to expect. The gist of the conversation was, “Just enjoy yourselves, we’ll take care of everything.”
We spent the rest of the evening in the salon and on the top of the boat drinking beers and, of course, my rum and hanging out. I finally turned in at about 11:30pm, hoping to get to sleep before we got to sea and wake up in the San Blas islands.
I awoke at about 7:30am, and the boat was rocking in the open ocean. I made my way to the galley and looked around, thinking I’d see San Blas islands not too far off the bow of the boat, but only saw the blue sea. Apparently, we hadn’t left until 4am, and were still a ways from the islands.
I had breakfast and coffee, then tried to read in the salon. After about 15 minutes of staring into my Kindle, I started to get the wet, salty feeling in my mouth. I don’t usually get sea sick, but I moved to the rail of the boat just in case. I sat there for a couple minutes staring at the horizon, but the feeling intensified and I heaved twice. Nothing came up except a bit of water, and afterwards I felt fine. That was my only bit of sea sickness during the trip, though others had a lot of problems while on the open water.
The boat arrived at in the San Blas islands at noon. We anchored off the small, incredibly picturesque Isla Chichime. The sea was as turquoise blue and the sand as white and fine as I’d ever seen. It was like something out of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition. We had a couple of hours to swim and snorkel in nearby coral reefs before we met for lunch on the island.
We had lunch at picnic tables outside of a shack on the island. We were served an amazing array of fish, veggies, and rice by the interesting indigenous Kuna Indians, who live on these tiny islands and have never been to the mainland.
After lunch, we had the day to hangout on the island until dinner. I went snorkeling for an hour, and saw thousands of fluorescent colored fish and a yellow-green colored eel. Unfortunately, it looked like the reefs were not fairing too well. Much of the coral seemed to be dying.
Then I took a walk around the island. The beauty of the place was incredible, a true tropical paradise. It took me only about 20 minutes to walk around the entire island.
Afterwards, I went to find the team. We played frisbee, volleyball, and chilled in the water under the shade of overhanging palm trees enjoying many beers, of course.
In the evening, we gathered around a table outside another shack that doubled as a makeshift restaurant for dinner. We continued with more beers while waiting for dinner which was supposed to be served at 7pm. Wes and I made a reconnaissance trip to the boat in the dingy to recover the rum. We returned with the booty, and everyone had a swig of rum from the bottle like good pirates.
We waited and waited for dinner, but Maria and Humberto did not show up with dinner until nearly 10pm. During the wait, David complained about the lack of organization, and many in the group were hungry and displeased as well. When they arrived with dinner, they showed up with a huge pork roast that still needed to be grilled. Oh well, the group powered on with more beers and rum until dinner was finally ready at 11pm. The group was starving and good and drunk by then, so the pork roast seemed amazing at that point.
After dinner, we took the dingy back to the boat, and most people hit the hay shortly thereafter.
The next day I awoke, had breakfast in the galley, and then went for a swim/ocean bath. Humberto let us know we would be pulling up anchor at 11am to sail east for two hours to another of the San Blas islands.
During the morning, some drama unfolded as Humberto fired David as the first mate, and chartered a water taxi for him to be sent back to port. Evidently, there had been some tension between them with differing opinions on how the trip should be managed. I had been oblivious to all this. Humberto joked that Wes would now be the first mate, which ominously turned out to be the case. I don’t know what we’d have done without Wes. Hmmm, that wasn’t in the brochure.
We had a couple of hours to spend on and around the island before setting sail. I had a devious idea and spontaneously decided to eat a hit of LSD, and then went snorkeling for an hour and a half. Awesome! It was an interesting experience to say the least, and a test of my breathwork to maintain even breaths in and out of the snorkel while tripping.
At one point, I was in about 6ft of water and stopped for a moment to fix my mask. I noticed something moving underneath and about 4ft in front of me. I scrambled to put my mask back on and resume a front float. I was startled to discover it was a spotted brown ray of about 4ft in diameter with a barbed stinger of another 3ft hiding the sand. Apparently, it was perturbed by my presence. I had a moment of panic when it started swimming right towards me, but fortunately it just passed right under me heading for deeper water. I swam above it for a while appreciating the grace and peace with which it moved through the water.
Back at the boat we secured the riggings, and motored out of the bay. Wes and Humberto worked to raise the jig and get the boom situated for the tailwind from the northwest. I poured myself a rum and coke and sat at the stern between the helms and had Wes and Humberto explain the science of sailing to me.
Then Humberto told me to take the wheel, and I sat at the helm steering the ship for nearly the entire two-hour trip. I had a learning phase before I understood how to keep the boat on course with the sails full. You need to have just enough pressure on the wheel to steer ever so slightly against of the direction of the wind. If you don’t, the boat gets blown off course. If you turn into the wind too far, the sail goes limp and you lose propulsion. All this while managing the waves and currents of the ocean.
Once you get the boat situated correctly with full sails and on course, then it’s just a balancing act to maintain. I was amazed how Humberto, sitting in the galley with his head down in a book, would instinctively poke his head up, “To the starboard, Mateo!” when I was even 15 degrees of course.
Overall, it was a pretty easy voyage. About halfway to our destination, I had to guide the boat between a couple islands about 300m apart and keep between reefs, but aside from that we were at open sea the rest of the way. I was rocking rum and cokes and at tripping at the same time, but I channeled my awareness into the sea and maintaining the course of the boat. Half a mile from Isla Waisalup, Humberto took over and motored the boat into a bay to anchor.
The group had lunch, then we swam ashore to explore our new island. This place was even smaller and less inhabited than the previous island. There were a few huts where fishermen lived, but other than that the place was remote. Aside from another couple sailboats worth of travelers relaxing about the island, we had the place to ourselves.
We found a guy with a machete and a cooler selling ‘coco locos’ (coconuts with vodka mixed into the coconut water). The guy hacked open 10 fresh coconuts for us, added shots of vodka, and we slammed them down. We proceeded to spend the day snorkeling and kayaking around the island.
In the late afternoon, the crew gathered around a table outside of a hut and the guys who lived there happily sold us cold beer until dark.
After sundown, there was a big bonfire where all the passengers from four different boats docked at the island gathered for a luau. A group of about 40 people hung around the fire all night. We were served a big spread of Colombian food for dinner.
At one point, Ashley was in the process of working out a deal with one of the locals to buy some grass. The local wanted Ashley to go with him to a dark shack located across a clearing about 150m from the bonfire. Ashley didn’t want to go alone, so recruited me to go with. I was in full party mode, so saw no problem with it.
The local opened the door of the shack and ushered Ashley and myself inside. We found ourselves standing in the center of the local drug den. It was a dirt floored ‘living room’ with about 12 locals ranging from about 18-65 years old sitting on benches and lawn chairs around the walls of the room. They were all passing around trays of cocaine and a bottle of vodka. Aside from light coming from an adjacent room, a 12-inch television and a single candle on a table covered with drug paraphernalia lit the room. We were very out of place to say the least. I started to get the fear, and the locals seemed to have the same reaction. I could palpably feel the tension in the room rise.
Ashley began negotiating with the guy who seemed to be in charge, a shirtless Kuna with a red bandana tied around his brow of about 20 years old. The guy had an 8-inch hunting knife with a brass knuckle handle in his hand that he had been cutting up coke with when we walked in. He waved it around to make a point while talking. Ashley was unphased and negotiated like a boss. It got a bit heated, and I didn’t know what to say or do. I just smiled at a few of the fishermen and laughed to try and break the tension. At the same time, I was paranoid and ready to rumble if necessary. Ashley managed to work out a deal for about a quarter ounce of weed for some ridiculously cheap price.
After they struck a deal and exchanged money for weed, the guy with the knife laughed and offered us beers. It was like he respected us more after the negotiation. We gladly accepted, proceeded to buy a cold six pack off them, and hung out in the drug den for about a 45-minutes. Turns out all the guys in the room were actually really nice guys. They were just as happy as I was when the tension of the deal making process ended, and we all laughed about it together. They all lived on the small island or another island a 10-minute boat ride away. They were all fishermen for subsistence and sold beer and party favors to sailors to make extra money for fishing equipment. Several of them were father and son. It turned into a lively little fiesta, and they were super happy to interact with us gringos. Funny. I walked in there thinking we were going to get jumped, and ended up leaving to a procession of handshakes, high-fives, and pats on the back.
Ashley and I laughed our asses off about the whole thing as we walked back to find our group. We spent the next couple hours hanging with the crew and people from other boats around the bonfire.
At one point, I was sitting on a log gazing into the fire. A german girl, Marissa, from another boat came out of nowhere and sat next to me. After a day of tripping and having been staring into the fire, I was in a pensive mood and immediately took the conversation beyond trivialities and into mysticism and the big questions, and she was game. She was only 24, but had recently beaten mouth cancer after being diagnosed two years prior. She had a new lease on life and was traveling the world to honor her new found happiness to be alive. Like myself, she was on a bit of a spiritual odyssey, so our conversation flowed. We must’ve talked for two hours straight, but it didn’t seem like time passed. By the end of the night, I was holding her in my arms as we watched the waning fire crackle.
Humberto came by to inform me it was now or never return to the boat. Unfortunately, Marissa was heading in the opposite direction, to Panama from Cartagena, so we said goodbye with a long, loving hug.
The next morning, I awoke late and went for a swim to try and wake up. I was feeling it from two straight days of ‘I’m on a Boat’ caliber partying. The ocean helped me feel better, and I spent an hour snorkeling before returning to the boat for lunch.
After lunch, we set sail for an hour to our final stop in the San Blas islands. I spent the trip trying to nap in the salon.
At about 2pm, we arrived at the smallest island yet. It was literally about 80 yards across, with only two shacks underneath a small group of coconut trees. Still, with the fresh sea breeze, fine white sand beaches, and brilliant turquoise water it was miraculously beautiful. Almost like a mirage.
The group spent a few hours swimming and exploring. There were hundreds of starfish scattering the waist high beach off the north coast of the island. The beaches were perfect for just sitting up to your neck in the warm, clear water.
After dinner on the boat, we set sail for Cartagena, Colombia at about 8pm.
An hour into the trip and the boat was cruising with a perfect tailwind. And rocking steadily. Most people elected to head to bed early to avoid sea sickness. I sat in the salon reading and hanging out with Wes and Nicole until about 10:30pm, then headed to bed. There’s not much to do or see in the pitch black of the open ocean at night.
For that matter, there’s not much to see or do surrounded by endless ocean during the day. I spent all of the next day reading and napping. Most people spent the day lounging lazily around the boat, and some people just slept the whole day through. I wanted to steer the boat, but it was set on autopilot, using the motor, so there was no need for anyone to be at the helm except to occasionally check to make sure we were on course.
In the waning daylight, we stopped at a tiny island off the coast of Colombia. Humberto bought gas and supplies from a roving skiff stocked with goods while most of the crew took the opportunity to jump into the water for refreshment.
When I got out of the water, I finally took a shower by way of a freshwater hose on the stern of the boat. It felt great to finally clean up with the freshwater after having been exposed to nothing but saltwater for the last four days. My hair and skin felt amazing. It’s all about the little things.
We had dinner anchored off the island, then resumed the overnight trip to Cartagena. I spent a few more hours reading and playing cards, but then proceeded to hit the hay early.
The next morning, I awoke to see the coast of Colombia out the starboard window of my cabin. I went above deck excited to have arrived. While having breakfast, Humberto informed me we still had to sail north for an hour to arrive in the port of Cartagena.
I spent the time staring at the passing scenery of the coast. Cartagena is the main port for all of Colombia, so we passed by a giant port for cargo ships. I watched huge cranes unload shipping crates from mega ships from China, and fishermen zooming past in motored skiffs, already returning to port with the days catch at 9am.
We motored into a huge port for yachts and sailboats, passing through the ruins of huge colonial forts from the 1600s made to protect the city from being sacked by pirates. Several of the towers and walls of the forts still had original cannons pointing out to sea.
We were also able to admire the skyline of Cartagena as we found a spot to anchor in port. It seemed like a city on the rise as I noticed at least seven new skyscrapers under being constructed and nice condominiums all along the point.
After we anchored, I thanked Humberto and Maria for everything, and then loaded up a water taxi to arrive at the dock. I flagged down a taxi, loaded my bags into and then said goodbye to the group. It was almost surreal. It seemed like the whole trip ended very abruptly. All of a suddenly, here I was on the dock in Cartagena saying goodbye to the team. Everyone would be staying in Cartagena for a few days, and we all exchanged contact info, so we’d likely be hanging out together during the week, but still. It had the feeling that something epic just ended.
A highlight real made by Cassie:
Yet, when one journey ends, another begins. I was finally in Colombia. A place I had heard so many good things about from other travelers it almost seemed mythical. I stared out the window of the taxi hoping my expectations for Colombia hadn’t been set too high, but still excited to explore a new country.
Like Costa Rica, Panama was a country I didn’t fully give it’s due. I mostly spent my time there in Panama City, which admittedly was not my favorite place. In contrast, the San Blas Islands were amazing. Although a cottage industry has sprung up to charter travelers between Panama and Colombia via the San Blas Islands, they still have the feeling of being unspoiled by tourism. Maybe it is because they’re so remote. Maybe it’s the self-sufficient native Kuna people. Or maybe it’s the cliché picturesque beauty of an isolated tropical island sans Club Med style resorts. Whatever it is, the San Blas islands retain an authentic essence that should be experienced if you are ever in Panama.
Excellent read Matt. I think the flow was best yet. Keep up the great work.