Journal from the San Blas: Installment 1

As our 20-seater plane begins to descend over the thick jungle of the Panamanian isthmus, the bright blue Carribean Sea suddenly takes over the view. This is how most people reach Panama's Caribbean coast, and oh my, is the trip spectacular. Roads have yet to penetrate the vast rainforest straddling the Continental Divide here, though loggers have smashed their way in with tires heavier than any animal or human forest dweller, as evidenced by the bald spots I see from above.

The Caribbean draws me in as the plane approaches. Thoughts of a turbulent morning disappear from my short-term memory. I'd barely made the plane, and wasn't even sure if my bag had made it into the tiny cargo hold. Without an alarm clock, I'd awakened 15 minutes prior to liftoff. But the thought of waiting another day in Panama City (only one 6 a.m. flight departs for the San Blas daily) had me racing through the gritty Panama City predawn furiously hailing a cab to take me to the airport. I'd run into the terminal like a madwoman, yelling "El Porvenir! El Porvenir!," my San Blas destination, at the top of my lungs. It was 6:01 am. As luck would grant, the plane was still sitting on the runway. After giving my age and weight, I raced through the tiny airport again to find the rest of the passengers. Before long, we were looking down over the tops of freighters plying the Panama Canal, then bumping through clouds that drifted over that seemingly endless expanse of green that is the rainforest canopy.

Somehow the Caribbean brought the bright sun, or at least it felt so. Red and black coral reefs shimmered under clear water, like submerged islands. The San Blas, an archipelago of some 350 tiny islands, so close to Panama proper that they look like emeralds spilt from a jewelry case.

Our first stop was Carti, a tiny jungle airstrip on the edge of the mainland where our plane was met by Kuna Indians. They sat calmly at the end of the runway (okay, the ocean) in dugout canoes, their shoulders even with the crumbling concrete of the airstrip. Even though I'd seen a few of these colorful people wandering around Panama City, nothing compares to first seeing them in their Caribbean home. Peeking from the airplane window, I watched in awe as the women approached wearing molas, colorful hand-stitched cloths that are an integral part of the women's blouses. Some had gold noserings and all wore beads from their wrists to their elbows and from their ankles to their knees. Around their waists are wrapped bright sarongs and their heads are covered loosely with red and orange patterned scarves. The men dress more plainly, more Western. All are barefoot.

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