San Blas Islands, Panama -- As we roamed the shore of the tiny island, Ramon sauntered up and leaned in close to hand us a ragged piece of notebook paper. On it was written, in a rough combination of capital and lowercase letters:
"Wellcome to this paradise very nice Dog Island. We gonna make your dreams come true. Property of Jose and Ramon Hernandez. Comarca Kuna Yala. San B. Panama."
A few days earlier my husband and I had arrived in Porvenir, a nearby port island that marks the western tip of the San Blas archipelago, an island chain dotting the Caribbean waters off the north coast of Panama. The 365 islands and the immense rain forest on the nearby mainland make up Kuna Yala, a reservation inhabited by more than 50,000 of Panama's Kuna Indians.
From Porvenir we boarded a multicolor dugout canoe with a 15 horsepower engine that ferried us to the island of Nalunega. There our honeymoon officially began at the Hotel San Blas, where we stayed in crudely constructed thatch-roof cabanas with sand floors, a simple wood-frame double bed, two small tables and an oil lamp. I hoped that my husband would be as enchanted as I with backpack travel in a Third World country.
Nalunega became a home base for day trips to smaller, less populated islands such as Atchutupu (Dog Island), a white sand oasis less than a city block in circumference. A smattering of palm trees decorates the island and crystal blue water licks constantly at the sand. Twenty feet offshore, the eroded bow of a sunken Colombian boat juts up out of the water, its hull below overtaken by 40 years of coral growth that teems with tropical fish.
"You want to come back to camp on this island?" asked Ramon, tugging his knit cap down toward his oversize aviator frames. "$8 a night," he said with a grin. "I have hammock!"
The idea of spending a few days on Atchutupu with the two elderly Hernandez brothers, an adopted boy named Yoidi and a small, timid dog (whose presence had nothing to do with the name of the island) sounded, believe it or not, irresistible. My husband, the accountant -- and, I was finding, the adventurer -- loved the idea.
We returned to the desert island the next afternoon with a supply of canned tuna, a jar of peanut butter, some bread, a can of pineapple and some coffee. The island would provide all the coconut we could eat.
Coconuts, the main staple of the Kuna economy, go for $1 each. On Atchutupu, young Yoidi shimmied up the palm trees and knocked the nuts down for Ramon, who performed the initial shucking. He cut a hole in the top for us to slurp the milk and then Jose whacked it with a machete for access to the meat.
If Atchutupu sees 20 visitors a day who pay $1 each for use of the beach and to indulge in a couple of coconuts, the brothers make out pretty well.
We snorkeled and sunned and lazed in hammocks strung between palms until the sun went down and the last day-trippers had finally shoved off, mildly envious that we were staying behind.
That night we huddled under the cabana overhang sipping hot, strong Nescafé prepared with water boiled on a small gas burner, the only appliance on the island. An evening rain gave way to moonlight and stillness, save for the palm fronds rustling like the sound of rain on pavement.
Ramon, who unsuccessfully tried to hide his fondness for beer and rum from his brother, asked in a whisper if we'd brought any spirits from Nalunega. We hadn't, but his face lit up when he discovered I'd brought a Walkman and tiny speakers. He soon emerged from his cabana with a plastic bag that housed his entire collection of Hank Williams tapes.
We popped in cassette after cassette and danced silly jigs in the moonlight to worn-out recordings of "Why Don't You Love Me Like You Used to Do?" Yoidi observed and giggled, with one eye on the sky for the plane that leaves Panama City and flies overhead at 8 every night. The blinking red lights of the plane neared and the roar of the engine grew louder until finally it passed directly over the island. The ensuing silence and pitch darkness signaled bedtime.
Ramon had rigged up two woven hammocks side-by-side for us in the lantern-lit cabana he'd be giving up for the night. He rarely slept, anyway, he told us, but often wandered the island all night long.
"I love this island," he said with a smile and shook his head as though he just couldn't get over it. Ramon went on to explain how the elder brother, Jose, once worked picking and hauling bananas. When an injury crippled Jose, he retired to the island.
The brothers live the rare luxury of maintaining an island that has been in their family for generations. Throughout the mostly uninhabited San Blas Islands, the democratically elected Kuna chiefs assign a family (or several families) to a particular island for a few months. The family's responsibilities include keeping the island clean and safe for visitors. In return, the family profits from the sale of coconuts and the $1 beach charge. Some months later, the family rotates back to its village and another family goes to maintain and profit from the island.
In Kuna society, community consensus resolves most issues, with women playing an equal role in decision-making. Even on larger, more densely populated islands, minor domestic disputes generally constitute the worst social ills.
"You fight your husband," Ramon said with a chuckle, "everybody they know your problems." Living in close quarters leaves little tolerance for disruptive arguments, and offending spouses must appear before the entire community for "sentencing": For him, clean-up duty at the Porvenir landing strip; for her, extra sweeping around the village. Pure fear of embarrassment seems to work out most problems.
On Atchutupu, a less complex social structure exists. Ramon makes it his business to do all the cooking and cleaning, and to tend to his disabled brother's needs. Before Ramon retired to the island, he told us he, too, had worked as a banana picker for 26 years.
"I had a dream one night," he reminisced. "My mother she die 20 years ago, but she come to this island in the dream." The dream stayed with him for a week, during which time he debated whether to retire or to continue working in the banana industry.
"My mother she come to this island," he continued, "so I think, this island is my mother. I looove my mother!"
Ramon retired at 62 and joined Jose on Atchutupu. He committed to taking care of him and attending to his island "mother" by devotedly picking up debris and massaging her shores daily with his feet.
Every morning during our stay, Yoidi paddled around the island in a small dugout canoe to catch fresh fish for lunch. Ramon then served it with salt and lime, along with a type of banana that, when boiled, tasted just like potatoes. At night we shared our coffee and food and listened to stories told by the two older men. Jose and Ramon had grown up working on U.S. military bases, where they'd learned English, an unusual skill for Kuna of their generation.
Whenever Ramon was out of earshot, Jose would lean in and tell us about his brother's taste for alcohol.
"He don't think I know," Jose said. "Sure I know! It's OK. It don't bring no trouble."
When we were alone with Ramon, he'd make us promise not to tell. "I looove the rrrum!" he would exclaim, tugging on his fishing hat. "But my brother, he don't like, so I don't want him to know I drink the rum sometime."
We promised, of course, and Ramon shook our hands warmly when we prepared to leave a few days later. He thanked me for helping him write up a big welcome sign in standard English, not knowing that the words in broken English, written from the heart, had made us want to stay in the first place.
"You make-a me cry," he said, holding our gaze. "Don't forget this place, my friends, and please come again."
We climbed in the motorized dugout bound for Nalunega and waved until our Atchutupu hosts disappeared beyond the horizon.
Days later as we headed for our departure gate in the Panama City airport we passed colorful posters of the country and its people. One enlarged photo of a tiny island with swaying palms and pristine beaches stopped us abruptly. Two cabanas sat side-by-side and a small brown figure in red shorts and a knit cap strolled the beach.
"This island is my mother," we could almost hear him saying. "I looove my mother."
IF YOU GO
Getting there
Major airlines fly regularly into Panama City. From Panama City, smaller planes (Aeroperlas, Aereo Taxi, Ansa and Aviatur) depart once daily at 7 a.m. (about $56 round trip) for Porvenir and other San Blas ports of entry.
Where to stay
Accommodations are primitive at best, but so are the expenses. Staying at the Hotel San Blas (011-507-262-5410) costs $35 per day, which includes a cabana, three meals and unlimited transportation to neighboring islands.
There are a few small lodges on islands throughout the archipelago, offering cabanas built of natural materials, some with private and some with shared baths, fresh water, solar electricity and radio communication. Two popular ones are the Sapibenega Hotel at Playon Chico (www.sapibenega.com, 011-507-225-8819) and Dolphin Island Lodge on Dolphin Island (www.dolphinlodge.com, 011-507-225-8898).
When to go
Panama has two seasons: wet and dry. The rainy season is mid-April to mid-December, the dry is mid-December to mid-April. Rain is sporadic and a brief torrential downpour is often followed by sunshine and clear skies.
Information
For reservations, contact a travel agent knowledgeable about Panama. We used Interworld Travel at 1-800-468-3796. Another company that can customize a tour of the San Blas Islands is South Star Tours (1-800-654-4468).
You'll also need a passport valid for at least six months from time of entry to Panama. A tourist card is not required of U.S. citizens.
The best way to visit the San Blas Islands is with an experienced Kuna guide who speaks English. I recommend Gilberto Alemancia, who works for IPAT, the Panamanian tourist bureau and is an expert in responsible development and tourism in Central America. (galemancia@hotmail.com).
There are no mosquitoes in the San Blas Islands, so there is no problem with malaria. Depending on which area of Panama you're visiting, however, you may need certain vaccinations.
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