The opportunity arose at a convenient point in my life. My editor had commissioned a travel piece about the perennial appeal of the desert island, and my location in Panama City as a Latin American correspondent made it easy to sketch out a proposal: two weeks on the San Blas Islands in the crystal Caribbean waters off the north coast of the country.
Competent, usually reliable, and cheap, I was in the right place at the right time. A middle-aged misanthrope on a desert island was a neat angle, too.
I made my pitch and got confirmation of the assignment by email. The T&Cs Zoom call with Jan, my editor, was short and sour. She liked to examine her writers’ faces for any traces of deviance and pin us to the brief.
“Don’t make a bollocks of this, Aaron.”
“I’ll try. Thanks for the opportunity.”
“Five thousand words by the end of the month, please.”
“Of course. You know you can rely on me, Jan.”
The San Blas archipelago is a cluster of around three hundred and fifty tiny tropical islands within striking distance of mainland Panama by speedboat. Fifty thousand indigenous Guna Yala people inhabit about eighty of these islands. Check online images to confirm your expectations. The sea, a full spectrum of blue, caresses pristine white sands. Occasional clouds scud through an otherwise azure sky. Palm trees encircle a picture of serenity, shielded and secure from the chaotic influences of a complicated world. It’s the taste of coconut, chocolate and rum.
At first glance from social media posts, the San Blas might look similar to the fashionable and luxurious resorts of the Maldives, but they couldn’t be more different in terms of geological formation, price and the experience of being there.
Both sets of islands, however, share an existential threat from rising sea levels. You’d better get packing pretty damn quick if you want a desert island vibe in either of these places. They will be under water in our lifetime. I expected the impact of climate change on the Guna Yala would be a key theme in whatever I wrote.
And the demons I had accumulated were coming with me, too. I am a mid-career journalist with a broken marriage, and an estranged son back in the UK. Space and an opportunity to process change were a gift and being a castaway sounded perfect. I was still looking for something and maybe I’d find it there. What a gig.
But things didn’t go as I expected. They never do.
That I wrote this story instead of my travelogue didn’t help my sketchy finances or lead to a straightforward conversation with Jan. But I have never been more compelled to write. Ever. I can thank the islands for that, at least.
Once I had returned, I wrote everything down inside a week whilst researching the history of the San Blas and visiting museums dedicated to Guna Yala culture in Panama City.
The words flowed out of me. I only stopped to feed myself, sleep and pace the sidewalks daily, because it helped me think in the breathless heat of the city.
Even getting to the San Blas was pretty epic. The Government had signed off on a controversial mining contract, sparking riots and civil disobedience. The people were united across social and ethnic groups and severely pissed off. Tear gas cannisters littered the manicured lawns of the tourist friendly Cinta Costera. This polished coastal promenade of progress was empty by day and a seething mass of reggaeton-blasting, masked marchers by night. It was quite scary, even for someone used to seeing how quickly things can blow up in Latin America.
Details about the contract emerged and raised urgent questions about the speed of the deal and the license the mining company had to forcibly remove families with the misfortune of living on a seam of ore. Most of whom were fighting a daily battle with the basics of food, fresh drinking water, and access to medical care. The former president's conviction for trousering investment funds was also in the news, ramping up the tension with allegations of corruption behind the scenes.
Panamanians have a strong sense of national identity, and the press stirred things up by representing the mining company as Canadian. An inflammatory theme I was familiar with. Central and South American states have a chequered political history with foreign investment. And it would be entirely fair to say that more developed economies overall have pursued an exploitative agenda over the centuries. Plundering natural resources, oppressing indigenous peoples and corrupting their venal politicians have been the common call cards.
The increasingly vocal xenophobia had become a little uncomfortable for a six foot two, grey-haired gringo loping around the city. Naturally, none of this stuff ever landed a big splash in the UK press. I carried on filing my reports, but I guess there were more than enough stories to digest closer to home. This was the greatest challenge of writing from this part of the world.
When I tell people I’m working from Panama, a kind of vague recognition crosses their faces. They might mumble something about the canals or tax evasion before they reach for Google maps. But there is much more to this place than non-doms and the surgical bypass between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.
It’s a beautiful country and there is a genuine eco-spirit here. A commitment occasionally manifested in actual policy. They didn't fully connect the Pan-American highway for environmental reasons, to protect one of the last areas of virgin jungle in the Darien region on the border with Columbia. You still cannot drive the full length of the continents. It’s pretty wild down there, and illegal immigration is an ongoing humanitarian problem. But it’s as pure a green as this planet can offer today. It is possible to imagine the experiences of the Spanish conquistadors in the 16th century.
Of course, this circuit breaker in the highway has the additional benefit of disrupting a primary drug trafficking route from the south, where coke production is concentrated, but the Americas start and finish in Panama, with the additional option of a shortcut across the globe. It is a wild collision of life, immigration, and cultures. A bridge between modernity and a primal, ancient landscape. Dangerous but beautiful.
The fact that foreigners were poised to benefit most from this massive, long-term open cast copper mine that would eat into the jungle and decimate the country's "Green Gold" was an unacceptable provocation. I must hand it to Latin American protesters; they don't give up easily and their cause seemed righteous enough from a neutral’s perspective.
Blockading major roads and the resulting economic squeeze was the protestors' tactic of choice to encourage the president to think twice. So it was a total miracle that the travel company’s transport got us out of the city.
The 4x4 chartered for the trip picked me up outside my apartment block in the darkness before dawn and then drove into the tourist quarter in Casco to collect a young German couple who were sharing the ride. We were in the margins of the day. That time between the turmoil of night clubs kicking out the lingering, drunkest revellers, but before the city has fully woken and the Fondas have lit their stoves to prepare their meaty breakfasts. We passed burnt-out cars, police on pre-dawn patrols, and sped down the eastern corridor.
Our driver probably had a natural inclination to speed anyway, given his trade. He was enjoying the incredulous, terrified look on the young man's face sitting alongside him in the front passenger seat. We careered through the chaotic industrial landscape while the driver simultaneously drank his coffee, scoffed churros, left voice notes for his boss, and selected Bad Bunny tracks on Spotify.
I was sitting in the back with the more sanguine German girlfriend. There was kid's sit-and-ride at my feet, so I assumed this guy didn't have a total death wish and knew what he was doing.
The sun rose as we turned off the highway and ascended through the mountains. I’d heard tales of this having been an unmade track until recent times. That must have been a bone shaker on this roller-coaster route. Although we were grateful for the smooth, newly tarmacked road, it didn’t seem to belong there. The dense jungle on either side, the towering tree-covered peaks and the vast sky were really in charge around here.
As the strengthening sun picked out the deep, emerald valleys, it was easy to imagine the challenge of making a life here. It must have been crazily difficult in a pre-industrial age to cover even the short distance between the oceans in Panama. Kudos to the conquistadors for that, if nothing else.
Even though the young woman spoke impeccable English, the Germans weren't too chatty, so I exchanged some expressions of awe in Spanish with the driver. The pride and proprietorial spirit we'd left behind us in the city was clear at one point when he halted the car, bolted out and shouted up at a farmer whose cow had strayed onto the road.
If you plan to visit the place that inspired this story, you need to be aware that the self-determining district of the Guna Yala strictly controls entrance to its territory. Long queues, paperwork checks and fierce eyes defend a narco traffickers’ dream: miles of wild coast and shallow waters.
You also need to know the Guna Yala flag is basically Spanish, with a swastika in the middle. Avoiding getting into a conversation about this with my travelling companions was a credit to my mid-life maturity. The Guna have a rich cultural tradition, which it was my intention to explore and share for this commission.
We made it through the mountain checkpoints and descended from the jungle into a chaotic and bustling port area. It was all milling tourists and 4x4s. Utterly incomprehensible.
In the midst of the crowd, our driver spotted a stocky man with a friendly gap-toothed grin, who went by the name of Felix. I suspected this was not his real name, and I couldn’t have known then how central he would be to my experience on the islands.
Felix was wearing a blue skintight rash vest with a San Blas tour logo, an outfit designed to be visible in a sea of tourists. He was a point of calm amidst the chaos, and he inspired confidence. It was as if only he could see what was going on here. With an abrupt farewell, he sent the Germans off to another jetty, and they were swallowed by the crowd.
"Welcome! What was your name? How many days?" he said in confident English.
"Thanks! It's Aaron Jarvis, and I have booked two weeks on Malvadub."
"Ah, yes, that's right. That’s a long visit – we will be your hosts. Have you been here before?"
"No. First timer. I'm here to write a travel piece for a national newspaper in the UK."
I answered in Spanish at this point. It was important to be honest about my purpose, or I would look a bit weird. Most visits were for one or two days for reasons that would become apparent once we reached the island.
Felix's eyes widened in recognition as he counted the cash I'd handed over. He did so quickly and tucked it into his leather bum-bag.
“That sounds exciting. Hopefully, what you write will bring more tourists.”
He attached a bright green band to my wrist — something between a hospital and a festival tag. I noticed a tooth dangling from a leather cord around his neck. It may have been one of his own for all I knew.
“Wait here, please."
And then he was gone.
I picked him out in the crowd, conducting travellers and beaming instructions. I perched on a bench in an ersatz waiting room of tree branches and corrugated iron among my bags and the growing pools of people. It was getting hotter and there was irritation in the air. Parents got snappy with their kids and couples toyed with their vats of drinking water and mega sized bags of wheat snacks.
Different languages and dress codes made for a diverting game of “guess the nationality.” Lots of Americans. Paler Europeans of all persuasions with interesting tattoos and a host of Latin folk from all over the continent. Their accents subtly different.
With pale skin, smeared sun cream, cut-off denim shorts, and a faded, baggy Stone Roses T-shirt that used to accommodate a significant spare tyre, I knew I screamed Brit. I am who I am and I didn't mind the assumptions others made if they were playing the same game. I was happy in my own skin and excited about the trip; glad to be alive and heading into an adventure.
The divorce had been drawn-out, horrible, and emotionally draining. Twenty years of life dismissed in cold bureaucracy and a flourish of papers. I missed my son, who had supported his mother through the turmoil of dealing with a mad, bad dad. A justified position that showed his judgement and strength of character. He’d just turned fifteen, and I hadn’t seen or heard from him in months. Parents are just ordinary, imperfect humans too, and I hoped he would grow up to understand that.
Looking back, I can see I’d had some kind of burnout. Stress plus a heart condition; blue lights, late night emergency stent.
But I'm free from that angst now. Once I’d recovered, I fled the demands and jostling of the executive world and went back to writing. Suddenly, I could take on projects that truly interested me again. In the past, in striving for corporate advancement, I’d concentrated on being what everyone else wanted me to be. I took on big bucks jobs to get noticed rather than following my principles or instincts. There was no space. Only service. The paper had been generous during my illness and had given me a chance to reinvent myself. The Latin American shift took me right back to where I had begun.
And now, there would be nowhere better than a desert island to feel grounded again, to reconnect.
It would be delicious solitude.
I was determined to go full Crusoe and had various ruses to remain offline. A digital detox of sorts would allow full immersion into the island experience and give an undercover angle. All my senses would be available, no distractions.
Regardless of their country of origin, people in the sprawling dockside queue wasted no time in taking selfies and group photos. I couldn't understand why they’d want a picture of themselves standing on the stained shore of a port, but knew this behaviour was going to be important for my piece, so I watched anyway. It was a little tragic, but I guess they weren’t doing any harm.
To further my research on the San Blas, I’d created a personal Instagram account. I wanted to understand the motives, go beyond the constraints of my professional profile for an insight into what brought people here. I could already see that The Gram played a huge part in the marketing. Even though my devices were off limits, the Socials were fascinating when I came to look at them again.
A local walked past wearing a pink t-shirt with the word Cutey emblazoned in large white letters across her chest. She was clearly born male and wore third gender with a confidence that made her stand out from the crowd. Large pendant earrings adorned her heavily made-up face, and her tight denim shorts would have been called "provocative" in a different era.
Smiling and making everyone feel at ease, she engaged tourists in conversation, touched their arms and checked in on how they were feeling. She ensured everyone reached the right boats for the right islands. She was bloody good at it because it looked a real shambles to an outsider.
Cutey's prominence in this enterprise was a pleasant surprise. Latin culture can be un-reconstructed and macho. There was little representation of transgender people in Panama City, no real representation in the media, business or TV.
I know I am walking on a Gen X razor here, but the only places I’d seen this section of society was late at night on the corners a few blocks down from me. And I'm not suggesting that anyone trans is promiscuous or a hooker. You can make your own minds up about culture and the emergence of identity and sexuality. Anyway, I'm pretty confident that I’ve fallen off my tightrope here already, so no offense.
After half an hour of watching others gurning for photos and being packed into speed boats, it was my turn. A thrill of excitement buzzed through me and awakened my senses. It was a sultry mid-morning by this time and the distant islands promised cool refreshment and a bounty laden taste of paradise.
Based on the absence of backpacks, I assumed our boat was filled with day-trippers. It was Fiestas Patrias, a Panamanian national holiday, and people were getting stoked for a tropical island party. Felix helped Cutey aboard, climbed in himself, and then straddled the prow. He climbed up and only his calves were visible as we edged out of the jetty. He helped the driver astern navigate a path out of the port area.
When we had reached an empty stretch of water, he ducked down and surveyed the passengers. He was warm and friendly in host-mode and introduced me to one of his nieces sitting in the front row. Behind her smile, she did not seem thrilled to be introduced. Her name was Lisa; she was heading back to work on her family's island after spending time on the mainland.
