Author: Igor

Our arrival in the San Blas Archipelago aboard SV Oceanolog was nothing short of a revelation. After days of solitude at sea and seeing only one other yacht along the remote southern coast of Panama, we were suddenly surrounded by a small flotilla of sailboats. Sleek monohulls and spacious catamarans dotted the horizon and clustered peacefully in the anchorages—like a quiet regatta gathering in paradise.

It felt as though we had sailed into a dreamscape that many sailors long for: the legendary San Blas Islands, a place where time slows down, and nature whispers instead of roars. This was the Caribbean as it’s rarely seen—unspoiled, vibrant, and deeply rooted in culture.

Our exploration began with a stop at Iguana Island, a quintessential tropical gem. Picture this: a tiny spit of white sand crowned with graceful coconut palms, gently lapped by turquoise waters so clear you can count the fish without leaving your dinghy. It looked like something lifted straight from a calendar or travel brochure—only this was real, and we were living in it.

As we settled in, we noticed that it wasn’t just fellow cruisers who populated these waters. Dugout canoes, or ulus, expertly carved from mahogany, glided silently past, navigated by the Guna people. These traditional boats carried everything from fresh fish and coconuts to curious children and trade goods. The contrast between the modern yachts and the timeless grace of the ulus was striking, a symbol of two worlds quietly coexisting.

The islands here are many and varied—some barely big enough for a hammock and a palm tree, others bustling with Guna villages. Each one offers its own unique charm and surprise. And with so many anchorages to choose from, the San Blas invites not just exploration but immersion.

The sudden transition from open-sea isolation to a vibrant, salt-sprayed community reminded us why we sail—not just for the destinations, but for the stories that unfold between them.

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.

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?

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