We reached the southern Caribbean border of Panama, anchoring in the remote border village of Puerto Obaldía. This was the only place in the country’s south where we could officially clear immigration and customs, so it was a necessary stop.
Every new country offers something unique to the travel experience—and having visited more than 20 countries on our voyage, we’ve seen quite a range—but after relatively prosperous Colombia, arriving in Obaldía felt like a stark contrast. The village greeted us with the gray despondency of an underdeveloped outpost: green-painted military barracks scattered among small, dilapidated homes, most belonging to fishermen.
A couple of tiny grocery stores carried little beyond bottled water and Coca-Cola. When we asked about cheese, we were shown processed slices wrapped in cellophane—the kind typically found in fast food burgers—sold individually as the only available cheese. Oatmeal? Dried fruits? Nuts? No sign of those. Fresh vegetables were nearly nonexistent; we managed to scavenge a single yellowing cucumber and a few tiny onions.
We were unprepared for such a limited food supply. In retrospect, we learned that anyone hoping to enjoy the nature of San Blas needs to arrive stocked with provisions. For now, we were experiencing the emotional mix of joy at finally reaching Panama and confusion at the reality of Panamanian village life.
If there was one familiar note, it was the bureaucracy. Immigration and customs officers—comfortably settled in air-conditioned rooms—mostly ignored us while glued to their smartphones. The port captain filled out no fewer than a dozen documents for us—by hand, in triplicate, using carbon copies. A third of them were just receipts for various fees. The forms were gigantic (A2-sized!) with tear-off stubs on both sides. The sheer volume of paper used was almost comical.
Visiting the military garrison was a memorable experience in itself. After reporting at the gate, I was escorted to a pier where a group of young soldiers sat inside a bunker-like post. The senior sergeant took my documents and spent half an hour meticulously copying them into a ledger—without any English on their part or Spanish on mine. I stood outside at the “reception desk,” which was essentially a machine gun slit in the concrete wall.
Eventually, we received clearance to remain in Panama.
As we walked along the beach, we found a few coconuts, which felt like a small victory. We loaded them aboard and set sail once again—this time heading north. It looks like 8°40′N was the southernmost point of our journey.
Well then… time to go north!
