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Sometimes, the sea takes you where the soul needs to go. That’s what we told ourselves when SV Oceanolog dropped anchor in Portobelo, expecting little more than a sleepy Caribbean town and a few colonial forts. What we found instead was a riot of color, sound, and cultural fire—the Festival of Diablos and Congos, an explosion of Afro-Caribbean identity and theatrical rebellion we hadn’t planned on attending… but couldn’t tear ourselves away from.

It started with a drumbeat.

From the deck, we heard a faint, rhythmic thudding echo through the hills, like thunder with a pulse. Curious, we took the dinghy ashore, expecting perhaps a religious procession or school parade. What we found was the town transformed—no, possessed—by a pageant that blurred the line between street theatre and spiritual ritual.

Portobelo’s narrow lanes were teeming with Diablos—devils in horned masks, their faces grotesque with snarls, their bodies wrapped in red and black, wielding whips and unleashing high-pitched cackles. Around them danced the Congos, dressed in vibrant, patchwork clothes, their movements mocking and exaggerated, as they resisted, taunted, and ultimately overcame the devils with laughter, music, and satire.

We stumbled into the heart of the action, wide-eyed and slightly dazed, like accidental time travelers who’d arrived at a ritual centuries in the making. The Diablos y Congos Festival is no carnival—it’s a living, breathing performance of history. It dramatizes the struggle between African slaves and Spanish colonizers, with the Congos symbolizing the spirit of rebellion and resistance. The devils, naturally, are the oppressors.

Through it all, the drumming never stopped. It came from every street corner, a syncopated heartbeat that held the day together, keeping tempo with the wild choreography of rebellion. We visited the two forts on the hillside later that afternoon, sweating and smiling, our legs sore from dancing and our heads full of stories. Climbing to the highest point, we looked down on the town and the bay beyond, SV Oceanolog rocking gently in the harbor like she, too, was tapping her keel in time with the drums.

That night, we sat on deck as the sun set behind the jungle-draped hills, still hearing echoes of laughter, drums, and songs, followed by spectacular fireworks. We hadn’t planned to witness one of Panama’s most important cultural festivals, which happens once every two years. We didn’t even know it was happening.

But the best parts of a voyage are rarely on the itinerary.

And this—this wild, whirling day of devils, resistance, music, and dance—was unforgettable.

After a short ride on our dinghy, we arrived in Portobelo, a town closely linked to Panama’s colonial history—and once the heart of Spain’s treasure-shipping operations in the New World. It’s hard to believe that this quiet, sleepy town was once the bustling epicenter of gold, silver, and spice flowing from South America to Europe.

The remnants of grandeur are still here, albeit wrapped in rust, vines, and time. The old customs house, Aduana Real, now serves as a museum. Its thick coral-stone walls and cavernous halls once stored the riches of the empire while bureaucrats stamped and sealed royal paperwork with appropriately smug ceremony. Walking through it now, we could almost hear the echo of clinking coins and whispered plots to steal them.

We wandered along uneven cobblestone streets, past colorful houses and weather-worn churches. Our destination was Iglesia de San Felipe, home of the Black Christ of Portobelo—a life-size statue of Christ dressed in purple robes, revered by pilgrims from across the country. Legend has it that the statue mysteriously arrived on a cargo ship in the 17th century and, in typical divine fashion, refused to leave. Whether you believe the story or not, there’s something deeply moving about the quiet reverence inside the church, where the air is thick with incense and candles flicker beside weathered prayer cards.

We then decided to climb the hill overlooking the town—a sweaty but rewarding hike. The trail, half-covered in tangled roots and shaded by jungle canopy, eventually opened up to reveal a stunning panoramic view of the bay, the crumbling forts, the moored sailboats, and the turquoise sweep of the Caribbean beyond. Up there, the whole of Portobelo unfolded like a storybook illustration of a forgotten empire.

After the descent, we visited two more forts located right in town—San Jerónimo and Santiago de la Gloria. These moss-covered stone fortresses, once bristling with cannons and soldiers, are now quiet ruins occupied by iguanas and curious tourists. Still, their strategic placement facing the bay hints at the constant threat of pirate attacks that plagued this coast in the 17th and 18th centuries. Climbing over the walls and peering through cannon embrasures, we imagined the thunder of gunfire and the sight of sails on the horizon—moments before either riches were defended or stolen.

Back on our boat that evening, the forts silhouetted against the setting sun, we felt Portobelo had left its mark on us. It’s a place of contradictions—majestic and humble, haunted and hopeful, cracked by time but full of life. Like the Black Christ in the church, Portobelo remains right where it’s meant to be—rooted in history, refusing to be forgotten.