"There is a road to the left from Llanos which leads through the San Blas jungle. At the entrance to their territory there’s a checkpoint where you will pay 43 USD Tax to the Kuna Indians. At Port Carti there is a concrete pier where we will be waiting for you.”
Kapitaen Ludwig’s words made my heart skip a beat. There’s nothing quite like jungles and Indians to make you feel you’re venturing into a land less travelled. And knowing a 1903 sailing ship is waiting for you on the shores of the Caribbean could almost be an excuse for thinking your little life just might make it into the footnotes of some history book.
The Pan-American Highway runs from Prudhoe Bay in Alaska to the southern tip of South America. There is only one section that can’t be driven, the Darién Gap, an area of dense jungle and swamp. No road has ever been built, not only due to the hostility of the terrain, but also because of the potential disturbance to the environment and indigenous way of life. The gap is also a natural barrier between North and South America, blocking the spread of tropical diseases and foot-and-mouth. To get Pferdi across we had three options: container ship, sailboat or airplane. It was no contest; we’d always known we’d sail the Stahlratte.
It was only 113 km from Panama City to Carti but we expected a 3-hour drive. The early morning wound through green and gold jungle, the road’s wet-leafed curves and uphill slogs giving Fran an unpleasant workout. Halfway up one hill the Ural stopped. We were already in first gear but had no more power. I had to get out to (1) reduce the weight and (2) push. What a way to start the day but when we got going again the hilltops revealed the blue Caribbean Sea. We passed a sign for the port, Guna Yala / Carti and turning the corner, I caught my breath. At the end of the dusty, dirt road we saw her, tall, white and stately, 116 years of Dutch craftsmanship: the Steel Rat.
It was 9 AM and we were the first to arrive, apart from Peter from Switzerland who was already on board. He was travelling around the world and had been on the Rat since Mexico, stopping in Cuba and helping out as the boat made its way to Panama. Then Kapitaen Ludwig showed up and we unloaded our luggage onto a small boat. The Kunas rowed me out to the ship, which turned out to be a little less white close up. I was the first on board. The other 7 passengers began to filter in, all like us, making their way in various shapes and forms to the bottom of the world. Finally the boat docked and one by one the bikes were hoisted on board. We were last and Fran, surprising even me, refused to watch as Pferdi dipped over the pier edge and swung in mid-air before finally making it over the side.
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We were 10 passengers, 4 crew and 9 motorbikes. So smooth was the departure I hardly noticed we’d left shore and suddenly we were entering the San Blas archipelago. We anchored early afternoon and swam in a sea so turquoise I’ve only ever seen it in waters circling icebergs or 1960’s swimming pools. For two days we anchored in the tiny Coco Bandero Islands, uninhabited circles of white sand and tangled green palms. We kayaked over and explored islands so small it took less than 10 minutes to walk around them. Swimming in the green shallows I had to hop about to avoid plump, orange starfish dotting the sand. Time stood still and while I should have stopped to inhale the particles that make up paradise, I didn’t, we just lived in the moment, like it was the way life was meant to be.
The Kunas arrived at dusk, on a small boat with beer supplies, and the next day with lobster and fish which they dissected on deck for our supper. How the crew produced such delectable meals from the tiny kitchen was a mystery but we did take turns with the washing-up. That night we saw another sailboat and its German owner, weary of the Mediterranean, joined us on board for a bottle of Cuban rum. The yellow light on the top deck lit the black night and the wooden dining table was our village square where tales were told and histories repeated, of people like us, and people we wanted to be.
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The second night we raised anchor and followed a course to Sapzurro on the Colombian border. Anna the Dutch crew member was on first shift and the top deck was as quiet as the seas were choppy. I sat up as long as I could, feeling the wooden bench swaying beneath me, the warm breeze on my bare shoulders, willing my body to follow the rhythm and my stomach to be still. Watching lightening flash over the far shore, I was overcome with happiness. The Darién Gap was forever freeze-framed in my memory.
On the third day we woke up in Colombia and the turquoise sea was replaced by a world of green reflections. After a breakfast of eggs and lobster (leftover from the night before and now avoided by a select few), we swam, talked and read, and took the boat to shore to hike to the (dry) waterfall. At one stage we were visited by some officers from the Colombian Armada. In that sleepwalking state that inhabits those who are under the care of a guide, or Kapitaen in this case, it was only of mild interest to us. Our passports were later put into a ziplok bag and Ludwig took them on the small boat to the Capurgana migracion office further down the coast. While we lolled on deck we were stamped into Colombia. With the Panama exit already taken care of in Carti, it was by far the easiest border crossing ever.
The final night we were underway and the crew took the night in shifts again. Another far-off storm lit our last, split-second glimpses of the impenetrable jungle. We were originally supposed to land in Cartagena but due to problems with customs authorities there, Ludwig changed to the small port of Turbo where the Pan-American Highway in South America ends. At 6 AM we barely had enough time for breakfast before gathering our bags on deck and saying goodbye to our bunks.
We docked in Turbo at a pier belonging to the coastguard. We weren’t allowed to disembark but got permission to unload offshore onto a cattle transporter(!). There we began the slow business of transferring the bikes, and ourselves, from one vessel to another. As we pulled away from the Rat, Captain Lulu raised a fist in the air. Turbo, and Colombia, were at the far end of a brown, jungle-bordered channel but I had that feeling I used to get as a child, when something wonderful had just come to an end. I felt overwhelmingly sad that the adventure was over and the fear that something so unique might never happen again dragged my spirits down to the cow-stained deck and beyond. The turquoise and green seas had turned a muddy grey here and it was hard to see forward when my neck craned to look back. You know it was something special when you yearn for a place that only has one toilet for fourteen people. Just pump "about 15 times".
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