The Darien Gap

Travelers who fancy sweeping the Americas head to foot will find one critical impasse: the Darien Gap.

A steamy jungle swath shared by Colombia and Panama, it is the one and only interruption in 30,000 miles of Pan American pavement gunning from Alaska to Puerto Montt, Chile. The road stops here.

Long the haunt of kidnappers, drug traffickers, rebels and rogues, the Darien's reputation simmers in world-class badness and macho mystique. Personally, I suspected that part of that was because dude journalists have always looked here for street cred.

But what really happens in this 54-mile gap?

People are living their lives. There's a sizeable population of Embera-Wounaan, as well as Kuna and the colonists who arrived with the 'highway' that reaches Yaviza. Along the highway you'll find cantinas, a few concrete hotels and caged toucans for sale. But if you want to really see the Darien, travel its waterways. The rivers will take you into Parque Nacional Darien (a World Heritage Site) and villages like the one I visited, with thatched huts flanking a singular glass phone booth. In these places, a visitor can still be regarded with curiosity.

The reputation? While not undeserved, it's time that it's amended. Rebel troops are probably not waiting with snares in the jungle. These days, it's complex logistics, weary police, constant checkpoints, natural threats (think poisonous pitvipers) and sweaty isolation keeping would-be adventurers at bay.

Before you go looking for shangri-la, keep in mind that there is no easy way into the heart of the Darien. You'll need a. trust, b. expert local help for logistics. c. a lot of money for charter boats and local guide services and/or d. a lot of money for professional guide services and e. inner calm. This isn't a place for everyone. Yet, it can be very gratifying for some.

We affiliate adventure with the extreme and, yes, the Darien has plenty of that. But once you get there (and you'll know what there means), the surprise might be glimpsing a completeness known only to bygone centuries.

Hot off the Press: Trekking in the Patagonian Andes

With the southern summer nearly here, there's a new version of a classic South American hiking guide. Trekking in the Patagonian Andes was a beast and a ball to research. Yet it would have been impossible without ample help from local guides, mountaineers and good friends who came down to sweat and trudge the trails.

Many thanks and gratitude to those who made it happen!

Wild Life

Panama´s Coiba National Park is known as the Galapagos of Central America, aka the Disney version of the natural world: a cheery, tropical creature-filled place.

Motoring up to Isla Coiba, a humpback whale breaches and crashes back into the depths. Bigger than the boat, it leaves a still, turquoise slick upon the surface. Soon there are others to watch, mothers teaching their calves the first thing or two. It gets me wondering about these places-where nature displays a loopy abundance- and how few and far between they have become.

What does it take to keep something wild?

Coiba has remained intact for bizaare reasons. Though it was first popular with pirates, later colonists stayed away. Probably because of the murderers. Starting in 1919, the main island held 22 remote prison camps. Surrounded by shark-infested waters, Coiba was the perfect cell. Paradise it wasn`t. Brutal conditions propagated disease and illnesses, torture was practiced and those who attempted escape simply disappeared.

Over 400 inmates are still missing, their fates absorbed into the mute surroundings of open sea and lush tropical forest beyond the deforested areas farmed in labor camps. Bahia Damas, the largest colony, makes a grim visit, overgrown with sharp grasses, its airless rooms slick with grime, indelibly dark in the hard sunshine. Here the few remaining guards (there are a few prisoners left) seem as eager to see a visitor as an inmate would be.

A paradoxical paradise.

The prison visit makes it hard to get in the water to go snorkeling, though the color shimmers turqoise and the beach is powder-white. The home of whale sharks, green moray eels and hammerheads, nature here comes equipped with its own security. But I go anyway, mostly because the other snorkelers brought their five-year-old. If she can, I can.

A puffer fish weaves through sand outside the reef. There are moorish idols the size of dinner plates, irridescent Pacific jack and the hundreds of inch-long rainbow wrasse which cloak my passage.

Whitetipped sharks are shadows on the sea floor. When one flits by my heart gulps. Do you know how hard it is to let that happen? As travelers we become connosieurs of sensation, but we rarely fear and admire in the same breath.

I see other things both beautiful and strange. A leatherback turtle flaps away. Rounding the islet, the current tugs, making my progress feel like the minnow´s escape.

And it is.

A Day in the Life

· Start in the highlands. Bus 1.5 hrs to the regional capital, grab a taxi and research furiously to make the last southbound bus.
· Wait while a hotel receptionist prolongs a personal conversation. Minutes tick.
· Just make the bus without time to hit a bathroom first.
· Notice how the bus stops every 10 feet.
· Listen to some very loud reggaeton.
· Endure.
· At transit point, take another bus.
· Arrive to your destination, a place without phone reception, internet or taxis.
· Start the mile walk to lodgings.
· Lodgings dirty.
· Walk an extra mile to beach cabins.
· Find a rogue wave has taken out your beachfront lodgings. Locals say this hasn´t happened ever in their memory.
· Return to town, 2 miles, in noonday sun with backpack.
· Passing car does not stop.
· Visit another lodging. Sweat beads your face. Listen as a surfer´s girlfriend lying in hammock violently disses XX publication. You work for XX publication. Smile and leave.
· Find a place with one room left.
· The manager is out surfing.
· Watch a six-year-old wax his surfboard.
· Wait.

(to be continued...)

the other Bocas del Toro

On Sunday I visited a Ngöbe Bugle community. Cristobal Island is a ten minute boat ride from Bocas town, where there's surf shops and $1 shot specials. But San Cristobal is a very different place.

Here the Ngöbe Bugle subsistence farm but sanitation problems and scant resources make it a difficult place to live. There are no cars, so a walk through the village weaves through stilt houses and crossing flags of laundry with chickens underfoot.On Sunday morning some kids were away for a baseball match, those remaining danced for a visiting group of long-distance runners.

I am weary of performances set up for visiting dignitaries and the like--often they feel like a brochure-in-motion, a rote recitation of culture. But it was clear moments in that this was more. Those who didn't dance stood rapt. It was not only real, but also a reminder that in many places whole societies must live on just too little. Yet their essence is vital and essential to our world.

Panama!

Will you look at this place? If the toothy glass skyline doesn't faze you, then the diablos rojos (painted public buses) might. By sight they're groovy--hand painted with pop icons, devilish cartoons and portraits of the driver's progeny. But in practice they're scary--barely regulated, they've been known to make pedestrians bowling pins when breaks fail. One word: Cuidado!

Your other option are taxis. These too are barely regulated. Yours might be missing a bumper, seatbelt or door handles. The best practice is pricing before playing, as gringo features usually double the fare, which also flexes with the weather and your eminent need.

Few taxis actually want to go where you do--many will refuse the fare. Those who will take you won't know the address and don't read maps. Then there was the driver with the Bin Laden sticker that I hadn't noticed until we were half-way gone...For the traveler, it's a seminar in Advanced Negotiation, Cartography and Blind Faith. For the driver, it's Sucker 101, every day...

My advice? Suck it up and learn the ropes because Panama City is not to be missed. The people are shouters, the traffic ugly, but Panama City pulses. A walk across the city revealed suited businessmen eating snow cones, dudes casually toting twisted rebar and a jelly shoe diving off a balcony (take particular care under these!) Hard to believe that just beyond this cement jungle, and really, I mean just past the mega mall, lies a tremendous tropical forest where your thoughts are drowned out by the chatter of birds and the buzz of giant crickets.

You just have to get there.

My Favorite Desert

Maybe it's the redness. Or its bigness. Or its shapes which ripple, arch and collapse into sage and sand, snaking rivers, deep slotted canyons, orange mesas and fissured towers. The Utah desert is a wild place. After traveling nearly half the world, I still find it secretive, strange and otherworldly.

That’s the thing about the desert: it absorbs and engulfs you. Tells you who you are.

There's power here. It gave John Wesley Powell courage, Joseph Smith divine inspiration and Edward Abbey words. You imagine that--if here long enough--you too could write whole books, invent a religion or fling yourself one-armed into the unknown.

The desert tells me that I'm a firefly on the face of things, a speck in geological time flitting briefly through this world.

We set out on the Narrows in Zion National Park early. The Narrows isn't a hard hike, but it does require you to tread a river all day, always "seeking refuge on higher ground" in case of a flash flood (which they say most likely off you anyway). After a night of heavy thunderstorms the water flowed clear and cold. We waded to our waists and forged up canyon over slippery boulders, through sculpted walls pocked with tiny scorpions. We admired the columns of light and peered at the blue slice of sky a thousand feet above. Mere specks.

America's national parks are not only amazing. They are popular. I did not realize how much so until we started to make our exit. It was a mass of humanity. Throngs of hikers forged up canyon. They were midwesterners, Italians, retirees and Koreans. Only a few had walking sticks to steady them in the current. Some wore bathing suits. Others carried designer leather purses or small, soaked children. There were flip flops and aqua shoes. Three divas wore nothing on their feet except perfect pedicures.

Bravo to those brave people. By not reading the free NP leaflet, they had found adventure on the scale of Powell or Lewis & Clark.

Abbey would have scowled. He had the right, the home court advantage. I do not put myself above them--the outdoors may be the only place I can properly organize myself. Otherwise I too am woefully unprepared.

Yet the moment helped me imagine the desert both with us and without us. The solitude of the morning contrasted sharply with the chaos of that afternoon. The desert tells us who we are. Collectively, we were not fireflies but circus fleas careening through some greater majesty, sometimes in RVs, sometimes in plastic sandals. At the end of my visit, I decided that the desert remained otherworldly and even more impenetrable than before.

But I was glad that I'd gotten up early.