The Lost Paradise of Panamá

In eastern Panama is a province called Darién which borders Colombia. It’s rarely visited by gringos past the town of Yaviza, and it’s highly recommended not to go any farther. This is not just another idle warning. Take it seriously. As with other unheeded warnings, such as wandering around in Colón City alone, you’re going to end up hurt, robbed, kidnapped, or worse. Every month some visitor to Panama, looking for a little excitement, does something very stupid. They get in way over their head, and pay for it dearly.

It’s not just the border that’s dangerous. The various guerilla groups such as FARC and drug smugglers go far inland, and have murdered peopled in neighboring villages, as well as on the islands off the northern coast in the Comarca de San Blas. My wife lost two cousins in this area who were working in law enforcement.

The jungle, though beautiful, is harsh and unforgiving. The Darién has extremely hostile terrain, covered with thick foliage and unmapped swamps. It’s infested with voracious fire ants and disease-carrying mosquitoes—the real king of the jungle. When the sun goes down, all light is blocked out by the double canopy. If you get cut or scratch a bug bite and don’t take care of it right away, expect infection to show within hours. Worse still, if you’re bitten by one of the many poisonous snakes, your odds of survival are…well, I’m sure you can imagine.

Add to this the roaming bands of indigenous Indians, heavily armed Colombian guerrillas, and drug smugglers. It’s a low intensity—but very lethal—war zone. There’s a reason why it’s known as the Green Hell, and that the Pan-American Highway was never built here. If you do go, make sure it’s with a guide and do exactly what he tells you. This is no place to mess around. By the time you realize you’re in trouble, it’ll be too late.    

A friend asked if I would hike through the Gap to the border. Common sense prevailed, and we decided to fly. My friend is also a pilot. We rented a Cessna in the Gamboa area, and headed east. I acted as the navigator using a 1:25,000 topographical map. We were searching for an airstrip we had heard about from a missionary. We followed rivers that helped guide us most of the way. I’m not a pilot, but my friend let me control the stick for part of the way.

From the air we found a scar of land cut from the jungle and we landed. In the tree line were Chocoe Indians, a Catholic missionary, his wife (or mate), and their young son. I know, priests aren’t supposed to have relationships. Right or wrong, this one did. The boy spoke the local dialect, Spanish, English, and swam like a fish in the nearby river. The Indians live in huts built on stilts. A notched log is used as a stairway. We gathered in one of the huts and listened to many stories about adventurers traveling through, never to be seen again.

We bought some things. I really liked a paddle with a bird carving on the handle, made out of a dark wood, impervious to termites. My friend bought a young macaw with its wings clipped so it couldn’t fly away.     

When we left, we pushed the plane as far back to the edge of the dirt airstrip as we could. At the other end of the jungle runway was a river, and on the opposite side, a rock wall. Once you passed the point of no return and hadn’t reached takeoff speed, you’d end up in the river, or crash into the rock face. The plane wasn’t getting enough traction on the runway and we weren’t going very fast. The rock wall filled the windshield and I prepared for the impact. Neither of us spoke a word.

Near the end of the runway was a flat rock, angled upwards, like a natural ramp. The front wheel of the plane hit this–we bounced–my friend pulled back on the stick and immediately turned hard right. The left wing missed the cliff and we were airborne. He threw me a glance and smiled as if saying, “No problem.” At the same time the macaw had somehow gotten loose and bit down on the web of skin between my friend’s thumb and index finger. He screamed in pain and I took over the control until he shook off the bird and secured it. Sweat was dripping off my wrists.

Our day wasn’t done. We made a beeline to the Pacific Coast and out to the Pearl Islands, specifically, Contadora. It’s a small island, but it has an airstrip. We landed, ordered a late lunch within earshot of some very loud, obnoxious tourists, checked out the island a little, and flew back to Gamboa. All in all, it was a pretty good day. The Darién Gap in the morning, and Contadora Island in the afternoon. But that’s the splendor of Panama. There are so many things to see and do in a very small country.