We watched the plane that we were supposed to be on fly away. As it flew over us we waved our arms as if we were stuck on a deserted island.
In a way we were. With one plane a day, which is usually full, there was no guarantee we could get off the island any time soon. We looked to our canoe driver for guidance.
He stammered something in Spanish. I wasn't sure exactly what it was, but it certainly wasn't an apology. He turned the canoe around and headed for Rio Sidra. Rio Sidra is the "big" island of the chain, but that's relative.
We pulled up to the concrete pier and climbed up on to the island. Unlike Isla Robinson, Rio Sidra doesn't have a single tree on it. Its hard packed dirt that's packed full of a few small concrete buildings and lots of thatched huts. In between the huts are small gaps that function as pathways to navigate the island. There's a larger path that goes down the middle of the island. It's not a road, though - there are no vehicles on the island.
We walked down the main path and crossed over the basketball court that belonged to the nearby school. The kids from the neighboring islands all take boats there every day to go to school.
Across the basketball court was a small restaurant, possibly the only restaurant on the island. We sat at one of the two tables. The owner came to our table with a big smile and no shirt.
"Don't worry! I speak English. I served a lot of people in the army. I cooked for them."
There were no menus. The one dish at that time of day was "breakfast", which is two deep fried biscuits. We all wolfed them down, diet be damned. Our guide left before we began eating and still hadn't come back by the time we finished.
The Germans were less concerned about the situation than we were. They didn't have a flight home the next day like we did. They stayed in the restaurant while Todd and I headed out looking for our guide.
We found him near a pay phone.
"What did Mr. Robinson say?"
"We can't call him until 10. He's sleeping."
That was two hours away and our chances of getting home soon are slipping away fast. After realizing that the payphones on the island were out of order we paid someone to use his cell phone and started hammering away.
We called the airline. It was Friday and there wasn't another flight out until at least Monday. Could we charter a flight? No. Was there any other way to get out? Not that they knew of.
Our guide offered that there was a small town an hour away by boat. From there there was a primitive dirt road that could be used to get to Panama City in four hours on a hired 4x4. But we had to reserve a 4x4 in advance and no one seemed to know how to get in touch with them.
We started putting some pressure on our guide. We had to get back today. What was he going to do? Could he call Mr. Robinson?
"I'll be right back."
We watched him run away through the maze of thatched huts.
After an hour he still wasn't back. Another hour passed and there was no sign of him.
Todd and I set out through the village looking for him. He was nowhere to be found. We went back near the dock and continued to wait. No sign of him. We figured out that the name of the town to go to was "Carti", but we couldn't contact anyone there.
There was another guy from the island who had come on the canoe with us. He knew where our guide was, but wouldn't tell us.
"I'll go get him."
He disappeared too for at least half an hour. When he was back I asked him about Mr. Robinson.
"He's in a hut. I'll get him."
"No. Take me there."
He reluctantly agreed. We navigated the paths until we got to yet another thatch hut, where our guide was doing cocaine.
Great. We're stranded on an island in the middle of nowhere and our guide is doing cocaine.
"You need to take us to Carti."
"Ok, but first I have to bring some stuff to Isla Robinson."
"No. We need to go now."
We manage to corral everyone and some boxes of equipment into the dugout canoe for the ride to Carti. Twenty feet from the dock we started taking on more water than could be bailed out. Our U-turn to the dock almost landed us underwater. Even our guide had a momentary look of panic.
"I'll take the canoe to the island, get the big boat, and pick you up."
The menu had changed in our two table restaurant. The one option was now "lunch", which was fried chicken, rice, and salad. We sat there picking at our food, betting on when the boat would get back.
It came back earlier than we expected, given its captain's penchant for sitting in huts and doing cocaine, and we started off towards Carti. This time Todd and I had full rain gear on, and our packs had their rainflies on. It felt glorious to use our gear.
For some reason I imagined that Carti would be a small bustling town. We'd be able to walk around and choose a 4x4 company to take us to Panama City. If they were closed, we could choose a hotel to stay at. The accomodations wouldn't be fancy, but they'd be comfortable enough.
I was wrong. Carti has only one building in it which is half waiting area and half restauraunt. Rows of 4x4s were parked outside. Kuna indian women, dressed in their traditional dress, wait on benches under the awning.
None of the 4x4s have drivers. We pay two dollars each for a "facility surcharge" and wait on a bench. No one knows when a 4x4 with a driver might come along, if at all.
We wait for hours. Todd takes a nap, I listen to my MP3 player, and the Germans play scrabble on a really cool travel board they brought.
A 4x4 finally comes. It looks new and safe. We're going to make it back after all. The driver gets out and waits for a boat - he's not for hire.
An hour later another 4x4 comes. It's the worst looking 4x4 I've ever seen. The white paint is faded, chipped, and in some places covered in putty. Its two doors lead to a cramped interior swathed in ripped vinyl. There's an extra battery in the footwell of the passenger seat.
This, of course, is our ride. At least this means the road can't be too bad, otherwise the thing would have never made it here.
The road is insane. It's like something that hard core 4x4 enthusiasts would drool over. No section of the road is straight and flat. If it's not a sharp corner ahead, then the 4x4 is skidding trying to keep its traction going up the hill or is careening back down the other side. The red mud road is flanked by thick jungle foliage on each side.
It's an adventure hampered only slightly by the noxious fumes circulating through the passenger compartment.
We go down a steep windy hill and I see a river ahead of me. We must have gone the wrong way - the river is 80 feet long and looks deep. And it is deep. I can tell because minutes later it has flooded through the footwells of the car and our ankles are underwater.
An hour later we're not in the 4x4 anymore. It's broken down and refuses to start. We're miles away from any sort of civilization. After half an hour of not being able to fix the car I'm secretly hoping that we have to sleep in the jungle.
The driver clearly doesn't share my secret desire. He has now disassembled the engine into little piles of metal pieces. He blows through a small greasy metal gizmo, trying to dislodge something from it. This doesn't seem like it will work.
But it does. Forty five minutes later, we're back on the road. The car isn't even backfiring as much as it was before. We finally clear the jungle and after a brief switch to a taxi in Chepo, we're home free.
What a way to end our trip to Panama.
I loved your article !
The greatness of San Blas is that it is very pristine and it will remains as it is thanks to the Kunas Idiosincracy. For that we have to be gratefull. (otherwise it could be turned into a Cancun in seconds).
Visiting San Blas is a life time experience that I strongly recommend to everyone, BUT you do have to travel with plenty of time to spare. To do it in one day is almost impossible(you can not flight out), in two days it is risky(you need that 1 spare day for contigencies) and in 3 days it usually makes it possible and enjoyable.
Whoa. This one hell of a jaw-dropping adventure. I cannot even begin to comprehend the amount of patience you had, from the coke-addict guide to the SUV ride through the jungle.
ty, I am so jealous of your adventure - you would have LOVED Mali, by the way: every 4x4 looked like that, and the road to timbuktu is the equivalent of your jungle path, just in the desert (instead of mud, you get sandpits)
Nothing like a coked up captain on a sinking ship. Life is truly stranger than fiction. What a great adventure. Did the airline ever give you an excuse for not noticing that they had fewer people than they came with?
Your plan to break the engine by lodging a little gizmo in it, and being forced to eat German flesh in the jungle has been foiled! Better luck In Tokyo.
We called Mr. Robinson, as instructed.
"Hi. We'd like to come to Isla Robinson on Thursday."
They're barely mentioned in guidebooks, but every seasoned traveler who goes through Panama City knows about the San Blas islands. They're stuck in the northeast of Panama City. By law, only Kuna Indians can own them.
My whole life I dreamed of the glamour of high school. I recall flipping through my older sister’s yearbook, pointing to the homecoming queen, and saying, “I am going to be just like her.” I can assure you that prophesy never came to pass. For the first few years of high school, I kept to myself, intimidated by others’ friendships that had existed before they could say each other’s names. I was a new girl in ninth grade, and even going on into my junior year, I still hadn’t found my niche. My dreams of being crowned homecoming royalty were completely shot down when I realized I would never get asked to a dance or go on any sort of date that I, myself, wasn’t paying for.
Here’s the kicker: I never thought I was unattractive or weird. Of course, I had my quirks like everyone else, but for the most part, I believed my ugliness remained in the past and, as the entirety of junior high seemed to be, just a bad dream.
I had just gone over the hump of my senior year in high school when I met him. He was in my clothing class, and his face wasn’t a new one to me. I had seen him since I moved there in ninth grade. He hung around the people I was never friends with, and he went to parties I was never invited to. Still, he never caught my eye, and he continued to never catch my eye as we gabbed while he made ridiculously hideous pajama pants. Although he was of an average height, he seemed lurpy. His blonde hair fell like a short curtain over his forehead, and he flipped it out of his eyes about every two minutes. Beady, blue eyes peeked from underneath his blonde drapery, and even though they were small, they were somewhat pretty.
We became friends.
Somehow we got entangled in a dare. Driving down the frontage road in our friend’s car, we stood up so we were out of the sunroof from the chest up, and we kissed. It was just a joke, and I never thought it was anything more. The next time, the encouragement for a kiss came from a stranger. Beady Blue Eyes and I sat on the top of a picnic pavilion in the middle of the night. Someone drove by and chanted for us to lock lips. I never thought Beady Blue Eyes had the guts, but before I knew it, his hand was on the back of my neck, and we kissed a kiss that lasted no more than two seconds. This was a joke too, I thought. We were no more than awkward friends that had been tricked into kissing two times now, and that’s that.