The Darien Gap, a roadless swath of jungle, separates Panama from Colombia, North America from South America. Panama does not want the two countries and continents connected because of leftist rebels in Colombia, cocaine trafficking, human smuggling, and foot-and-mouth disease.
This month, I took a 2,500 kilometer bus trip from Guatemala to the Darien Gap. Yaviza, population 6,000, marks the southern terminus of the Pan-American Highway and the beginning of the Gap. No matter where you live in North America– Toronto, DC, Dallas, Atlanta, LA– if you kept driving south, you would end up in Yaviza.
Although I had a day to relax in Panama City, I am still very tired. I had ridden one bus after another for 43 hours, traveling through Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and finally, Panama.
My journey is not yet over. I have to take chicken buses for another seven hours from Panama City to Yaviza. I am scared. I am scared of riding the unsafe buses, of getting food poisoning, of getting deported by the border patrol for carrying maps that are a bit too detailed for a casual traveler, of being kidnapped by FARC rebels, of catching yellow fever.
I am scared. The night before I leave for Yaviza, I stop by the bar next to my hotel in Panama City for a drink. I try out every brand of Panamanian beer they had (Balboa, Panama, and Atlas) and shots of the local rum, Abuelo. I feel a bit better.
It’s 3 a.m., and I have to go to the bus station. My bus used to be a Korean tour bus. It still had stickers with Korean words pasted all over it. An interior decorator covered the seats and windows with fabric and patterns straight out of an Indian maharaja’s sitting room. The bus driver installed a 42″ flat screen up front and large speakers and amps throughout. The interior was lit with dim Christmas lights. There was definitely a seedy Uzbek nightclub vibe going. At 3:30 a.m., as I try to sleep on the bus, the A/C is blasting Arctic air and the TV is blaring a Kevin James movie.
As we approached the Darien Gap, we were stopped over and over again by SENAFRONT, the Panamanian border patrol. After we invaded Panama and got rid of Noriega, we abolished their armed forces. And SENAFRONT was created. Their uniforms, weapons, everything, screamed military. I was the only foreigner on the bus. Whereas everyone else just flashed their ID cards to the soldiers, I received special treatment. I delayed the bus every time we were stopped because I had to go to a special area where they rummaged through my luggage and hand wrote my name and passport number. I answered the same questions about the purpose of my trip and I received the same orders not to travel past Yaviza.
The scenery along the Pan-American Highway was fascinating. You could tell there once was a thick jungle. But all the trees had been cut for lumber or burned for grazing land. Tiny young trees sprouted from the poor soil here and there. Thatch huts, the kind you see in old National Geographic magazines, were everywhere. And people lived in them!
At Metiti, we switch to a minivan. 21 people, young and old, along with their luggage, fit in the Toyota Hiace. In fact, I think there is room for three more children, at least. The road was paved, but due to heavy rains, there were potholes everywhere. It’s a veritable slalom course.
Finally, we arrive in Yaviza. It is hot and humid beyond belief. There are lots of people slowly shuffling about. Most of the residents are the descendants of escaped black slaves. The rest are Indians. Two of the three general stores are run by recent Chinese immigrants. At one of those stores, the owner shows me a picture of a chained monkey on his iPhone and asks me if I want to buy it.
The center of activity is at the small dock. Motorized canoes called piraguas ply the rivers. Without roads, these boats are the only form of transportation. They bring plantains, $100 worth at a time, to be sold to middlemen at the Yaviza dock.
My first order of business was to go to the SENAFRONT base in town and check myself in. El comandante stands on an elevated platform behind a podium. It is akin to where the night-watch desk sergeants in downtown precincts work in old-timey movies. He lectures me about the dangers of the area. I nod in concurrence.
I ask him if he can recommend a hotel. Should I go to Hotel3Americas, which has a cockfighting ring out back? No, he cautioned, I should go to Leticia’s hotel.
Easier said than done.
Leticia’s hotel is simply a non-descript two-story yellow building. There are no signs outside to indicate that this is a hotel. Worse, there is no one inside. Fortunately, a helpful man who was passing by is there to help. He is wearing a red t-shirt with the name of a new political party, F.A.D., on it. He is gathering signatures to make it an officially sanctioned party. He tells me that Leticia is at the funeral of the town’s 93 year old matriarch. We walk down to the church and attend the funeral.
As the casket was carried out to the town square, the collective grief was thicker than the humid air. I got a little teary eyed as well, as my grandmother also died when she was 93. The F.A.D. man points out Leticia to me, I apologize for bothering her, and ask for a room. Everyone calls her la professora. I ask her if she is a teacher. No, it is merely a term of respect.
The town is in rough shape and everyone here has lived a hard life. I did not take more than a couple pictures of the houses in town because I did not want to embarrass the locals. This was the polar opposite of the modern skyscraper metropolis that is Panama City. Yaviza is the pits.
As I walk by a shack with a red Claro satellite dish on top, I see women inside watching Joan and Melissa Rivers’ reality show. The stars are getting massages at a fancy spa.
For the story leading up to the Darien Gap, read parts 1, 2, 3, and 4.
Images source: Maxichamp
