Anchored in Ustupu: Life Among the Guna People

As SV Oceanolog continued her northward journey along the coast of Panama, we found ourselves dropping anchor near a large village—no, more accurately, a city—nestled within the Guna Yala territory. The place was Ustupu, the largest settlement in the Guna region and the birthplace of Nele Kantule, one of the most revered leaders in Guna history and a key figure in the 1925 revolution that secured the Guna people’s autonomy from the Panamanian government.

Stepping ashore felt like stepping into a different world. Ustupu is built across several interconnected islands, with wooden footbridges linking the land like a patchwork of dreams. The buildings are mostly traditional huts with palm-thatched roofs, but here and there, you’ll find concrete structures—signs of the slow and inevitable march of modernity. Despite the creeping changes, the cultural essence of the Guna people feels unshaken, pulsing steadily beneath the surface.

We had come not just to restock our food supplies, but also to immerse ourselves in the daily rhythm of this unique society. And yet, as with many remote corners of the world, communication posed its own set of challenges. The Guna speak their own language—Dulegaya—and although Spanish is sometimes spoken, English is rare. Our conversations quickly became a mix of hopeful gestures, animated facial expressions, and pointing fingers, which, while endearing, were only partially effective.

Still, communication isn’t always about language. It’s about intention, about showing respect, curiosity, and a willingness to listen. Through these shared cues, we began to understand more than we expected. A friendly elder, watching us fumble through our “point-and-hope” dialogue, eventually brought over a young woman who spoke some Spanish. With her help, we asked about buying fruit and vegetables—and discovered that supplies were limited. Most of the Guna rely on fishing and small garden plots for sustenance, and goods like rice, flour, and oil come on supply boats that don’t run on a strict schedule. We managed to purchase a few essentials: sugar, crackers, bananas, a couple of cucumbers, and some onions. A modest haul, but every bit felt precious.

Wandering the narrow paths of Ustupu, we were struck by the remarkable sense of community. Homes were built close together, often with shared walls. Children played in the alleys with makeshift toys, and groups of women in vibrant molas—the traditional Guna blouses, beautifully hand-stitched with intricate patterns—gathered to talk and laugh under the shade. Hammocks swayed in open-door homes, offering both comfort and a symbol of daily life in a place where simplicity and tradition reign.

What stood out most was the egalitarian spirit. There was no sense of hierarchy or materialism. Everyone seemed to live on equal terms. There were no cars, not even bicycles. Transportation consisted mostly of ulus—dugout canoes carved from mahogany, gracefully cutting through the water under the rhythm of hand paddles. These boats are used for everything: fishing, trade, commuting between islands, or heading to the mainland to tend to gardens or gather supplies.

Ustupu is more than just a village; it’s a stronghold of Guna identity. The legacy of Nele Kantule lives on here, not just in monuments or stories, but in the continued autonomy and unity of the people. He helped shape a vision where the Guna would control their own lands, preserve their traditions, and make decisions through their own political councils. That vision remains intact nearly a century later.

Leaving Ustupu, we felt both awe and a touch of melancholy. It’s a rare thing to witness a culture so deeply connected to its roots, and rarer still to experience it with such intimacy. Yet, like many indigenous communities, the Guna face a future filled with uncertainty. Climate change, emigration, and creeping modernity pose threats not easily held off by strong will alone.

Still, as our anchor came up and Oceanolog turned toward her next destination, we carried with us a renewed sense of respect—for the sea, for the cultures it touches, and for the people who call these places home. Ustupu had welcomed us in its own quiet way, and we were grateful to have been its guests, even if just for a short while.

A Glimpse into Guna Yala: Where Simplicity Reigns

We continued our journey along the coast of Panama, sailing through the waters of the Guna Yala people. Our route took us between the mainland and the scattered islands of this autonomous region. We had no idea that places still existed on Earth where people live free from the grip of consumerism, content with simplicity and guided by tradition.

Here, everyone is equal—there’s no flaunting of wealth, no rush of traffic. In fact, there are no cars at all. Not even bicycles. The primary means of transportation are traditional ulu—dugout canoes carved from mahogany. These boats serve as the lifeline of the community, used for fishing, travel, and transporting goods.

We anchored near one of these villages on the Isla Pina, eager to glimpse life from the inside. As we walked along the main path—barely wide enough for a car, had one existed—we were struck by the compactness of the settlement. Homes are built closely together, separated only by narrow alleyways, so neighbors live quite literally side by side, without barriers or soundproofing.

In many cases, an entire village fits on a small island, while gardens and farmland are located on a neighboring one, which is reached only by ulu. Despite their remoteness, the Guna people enjoy full political autonomy and, in my opinion, some of the most beautiful lands in the region. Though history tells us they were once pushed to the fringes by Spanish colonizers, today they’ve reclaimed a peaceful corner of the world.

Still, it’s bittersweet. The population is slowly declining—a sign that many are leaving for city life and gradually assimilating. I can’t help but wonder: how long will this paradise endure?


A Quiet Bay, New Friends, and a Coconut Cocktail Kind of Day

We didn’t linger in Obaldia—there wasn’t much to explore, and the place left us feeling a bit underwhelmed. So, we pressed on. Before sunset, we reached a stunning bay: calm, windless, and completely wave-free. It was the perfect anchorage for the night, especially after the previous evening, when rolling waves rocked us like an uneasy cradle. Let’s just say it wasn’t the coziest sleep.

There was one other yacht anchored nearby—a couple enjoying a quiet moment. He was from Uruguay, she from France. We exchanged warm conversation, though somehow forgot to ask each other’s names. It felt more like a shared pause in life’s voyage than a formal meet-and-greet.

That night was magical. The moon lit up the sea like silver, and the only sound was the distant roar of surf—reminding us that Caribbean swells never sleep, even if we could.

At sunrise, three locals paddled over in a traditional pirogue. Apparently, the bay wasn’t entirely free after all—anchorage came with a $10 fee. We only had a $20 bill, so they offered smoked fish, a bunch of bananas, and a generous pile of plantains as change. We sealed our little trade treaty with a can of beer each. Smiles all around. A peaceful exchange between sailors and the stewards of the sea.

After our morning coffee, we took the dinghy to explore. The place was fascinating: a few humble shelters perched right on the reef, built from palm thatch and sticks—some without walls, just hammocks swaying in the breeze. Not a soul in sight, only laundry fluttering on lines. It looked like a fishermen’s retreat, quietly waiting for their return.

The bay was lined with mangroves and coconut palms. Of course, we couldn’t resist topping up our supplies. We snagged a few coconuts—exactly what we needed. Our stash of nuts had run dry, and they cost a fortune in the villages. But with fresh coconuts and a bit of rum on board, we had all the ingredients for tropical happiness.

So, we feasted. Coconut cocktails, salty sea air, and the gentle rocking of the boat. Life at sea? Still sweet.