Chapter 11: Circumventing the Darién Gap
A five-day journey by sea across Panama’s remote Caribbean coast—three boats, shifting crews, and no set itinerary—brought me, at last, to South America and the return of the open road.
I left Chapter 10 adrift, sprinting toward the sea after a last-minute call from a guard who’d taken pity on my stranded plans. A cargo boat was leaving Cartí, bound vaguely for its home port of Caledonia, San Blas, Panama, about two-thirds of the distance I needed to travel by sea to reach Colombia. I clipped in fast, unsure what lay ahead. There was no ticket, no safety briefing, no confirmed landing—only the knowledge that this was my path forward.
Hours later, I rolled my bike onto the deck. The crew secured it with my gear and waved me to a space among the cargo. There were no bunks, just bags of goods, a large inventory of PVC pipe, tarps, barrels, and the overwhelming smell of salt and fuel. That first night we anchored near an island—regulations forbade night sailing—and I lay on the wooden bottom of the boat, cushioned only by a tarp, rocked by the lull of waves and the strangeness of it all. With one exception—the stars overhead, the Milky Way and constellations that I knew well poured familiarity and calm into my mind.
The next day, initially in early morning darkness as we departed the leeside of the island, the sea turned hostile. Six to eight-foot swells hammered the bow where I’d taken my place, sitting up by now and pressing my back against the port side of the boat, hanging on to integrated rails, while the water drenched me from head to toe. Every rise and slam of the hull felt like a punch to my body, a few left me stunned when my head collided with the boat. It was a visceral experience—one I endured for hours until a crew member let me move to the stern, where I found relief atop a collection of fifty-five gallon fuel drums.
By midday, we reached Goedupu, also known as Isla Caledonia, the home port of the boat. I was given permission, after an uncomfortable discussion with a young village elder, to camp behind public buildings on the island. This sort of thing wasn't typically allowed—visitors were expected to get permission before coming ashore. How I’d arrived had been unannounced and unwelcome from his perspective, but he made an exception after having some fun, it seemed, with his ability to do so. Breakfast the next morning was a bag of salty puffs and a Coca-Cola from a tienda.
Nearby, a larger cargo vessel was moored—hauling coconuts, scrap, and fuel barrels. Negotiations began the day I arrived. Over the course of many conversations in Spanish with the deckhand and first mate, I was eventually granted passage. By the following morning, I was invited to climb aboard. The captain, mostly silent and often brusque with his crew, offered no direct words to me. But by mid-morning, my bike was hoisted onto the roof of the cargo boat, and I was welcomed with a hot meal of potatoes, chicken, and vegetables.
We set off for Anachucuna, another Guna Yala village along the coast. But when we dropped anchor, we stayed. One day passed. Then another. I patiently reminded the crew that I had a continent to cross, that I needed to reach Ushuaia before winter. I received few words in reply. We had agreed that they would take me to at least Capurganá, but it seems they had other plans. Meanwhile, even the captain, indirectly, treated me with kindness. Each day I was fed a hot meal. They took me on two occasions to the beach so I could explore Anachucuna.
On the third morning, the silence broke—but not in the way I’d hoped. After a brief exchange of words, primarily between myself and the first mate, the captain ordered the first mate to deposit me on the beach with my bike and gear. My bags and bike were offloaded to the sand. No answers. Just the end of one more in a myriad of chapters from a very long bicycle journey.
Hours later, the deckhand, Farley, returned by skiff. On his own, he had arranged a new ride. He shouted to me to move quickly, reload my bike and gear, and go with him to another boat launch in the village where I waited alone for two strangers to appear carrying supplies they'd bought in the village. They were both young men, nonetheless confident in their dory fitted with an outboard, and soon we were carving lines between crests and swells that would have turned most people's stomachs sideways.
My original deal with them was a ride to Puerto Obaldía, Panama’s final outpost, but when we arrived they said they'd wait for me to get my passport stamped and then take me to Capurganá, Colombia for an additional $30—$60 total for the two transits. I agreed immediately and then walked quickly to the passport checkpoint in town, leaving my two saviors with all of my belongings. I returned about 30 minutes later after only a brief exchange with the border agent who was initially confused that I was traveling by bicycle, using local transport, rather than sailing independently. The sea and the spray gave me and my bicycle one more thrashing on a far shorter crossing to Capurganá.
By early afternoon on March 2nd, Day 174 of the tour, I arrived. Capurganá was amidst a normal day. Tourists outnumbered locals. Nearby, the Darién Gap loomed above the town, its hills cloaked in tropical forest. Access to Capurganá is only by bush plane—including a notoriously short and unreliable airstrip where livestock sometimes wander onto the runway and leave their droppings—or by sea.
I made my way first to a public water source and, as I'd done in Puerto Obaldía, I tried to remove all traces of salt water from the bike and then my bags. I resorted everything and after a short moment to absorb what had happened over the last few days—the first of many such reflection sessions—I went looking for the local passport office to request my entry stamp into Colombia.
Inside, I found smiles, curiosity, and patience—but also, no access to the national immigration database. I was told not to worry and to return the next day. In town, I quickly found a hostel and moved in. Soon I was lounging in a shaded hammock on the second floor, overlooking the coastline below. Gorgeous. Civilized. I drank deeply and drifted into a much-needed nap.
The final leg to reach connected terra firma—and resume the autonomy I’d enjoyed before Cartí—was the mainland port of Necoclí, and it was a public ferry ride away. Along the way, I booked a second night at the hostel and an outbound ticket from Capurganá to Necoclí. Despite holding a ticket, I was nonetheless denied boarding when the captain of the ferry opted to fill every inch of deck space with passengers. I waited patiently at a café, caught my breath, and reboarded the next available ferry. The crossing took about 90 minutes, even with four massive outboard engines pressing us forward.
After five uncertain, salt-soaked days at sea, I stepped onto the Colombian mainland—South America—with a deep sense of gratitude. The discomfort was real, but so too was the wonder. A renewed restlessness stirred within me, not from fatigue, but from the realization that the road ahead—now on a new continent—was mine again to follow.
Necoclí was humid, and signs of migration were everywhere. At the waterfront, tent encampments stood in quiet rows—occupied by families and individuals fleeing primarily Venezuela and Ecuador. These were people preparing to cross the same Darién jungles I had skirted by sea, only their path would take them directly through one of the most perilous land crossings in the world. Their presence forced reflection. I had endured hardship, yes—the uncertainty of the sea, delays, isolation—but these people were risking everything they had. Within days of my departure from Necoclí, Panama imposed new restrictions on migration through the Darién Gap.
Five days to Capurganá. Three boats. Countless delays. $160 USD in passage fees. And now the road returned.
With a new continent under my tires, I turned south once again.
The Andes waited.
Hours later, I rolled my bike onto the deck. The crew secured it with my gear and waved me to a space among the cargo. There were no bunks, just bags of goods, a large inventory of PVC pipe, tarps, barrels, and the overwhelming smell of salt and fuel. That first night we anchored near an island—regulations forbade night sailing—and I lay on the wooden bottom of the boat, cushioned only by a tarp, rocked by the lull of waves and the strangeness of it all. With one exception—the stars overhead, the Milky Way and constellations that I knew well poured familiarity and calm into my mind.
The next day, initially in early morning darkness as we departed the leeside of the island, the sea turned hostile. Six to eight-foot swells hammered the bow where I’d taken my place, sitting up by now and pressing my back against the port side of the boat, hanging on to integrated rails, while the water drenched me from head to toe. Every rise and slam of the hull felt like a punch to my body, a few left me stunned when my head collided with the boat. It was a visceral experience—one I endured for hours until a crew member let me move to the stern, where I found relief atop a collection of fifty-five gallon fuel drums.
By midday, we reached Goedupu, also known as Isla Caledonia, the home port of the boat. I was given permission, after an uncomfortable discussion with a young village elder, to camp behind public buildings on the island. This sort of thing wasn't typically allowed—visitors were expected to get permission before coming ashore. How I’d arrived had been unannounced and unwelcome from his perspective, but he made an exception after having some fun, it seemed, with his ability to do so. Breakfast the next morning was a bag of salty puffs and a Coca-Cola from a tienda.
Nearby, a larger cargo vessel was moored—hauling coconuts, scrap, and fuel barrels. Negotiations began the day I arrived. Over the course of many conversations in Spanish with the deckhand and first mate, I was eventually granted passage. By the following morning, I was invited to climb aboard. The captain, mostly silent and often brusque with his crew, offered no direct words to me. But by mid-morning, my bike was hoisted onto the roof of the cargo boat, and I was welcomed with a hot meal of potatoes, chicken, and vegetables.
We set off for Anachucuna, another Guna Yala village along the coast. But when we dropped anchor, we stayed. One day passed. Then another. I patiently reminded the crew that I had a continent to cross, that I needed to reach Ushuaia before winter. I received few words in reply. We had agreed that they would take me to at least Capurganá, but it seems they had other plans. Meanwhile, even the captain, indirectly, treated me with kindness. Each day I was fed a hot meal. They took me on two occasions to the beach so I could explore Anachucuna.
On the third morning, the silence broke—but not in the way I’d hoped. After a brief exchange of words, primarily between myself and the first mate, the captain ordered the first mate to deposit me on the beach with my bike and gear. My bags and bike were offloaded to the sand. No answers. Just the end of one more in a myriad of chapters from a very long bicycle journey.
Hours later, the deckhand, Farley, returned by skiff. On his own, he had arranged a new ride. He shouted to me to move quickly, reload my bike and gear, and go with him to another boat launch in the village where I waited alone for two strangers to appear carrying supplies they'd bought in the village. They were both young men, nonetheless confident in their dory fitted with an outboard, and soon we were carving lines between crests and swells that would have turned most people's stomachs sideways.
My original deal with them was a ride to Puerto Obaldía, Panama’s final outpost, but when we arrived they said they'd wait for me to get my passport stamped and then take me to Capurganá, Colombia for an additional $30—$60 total for the two transits. I agreed immediately and then walked quickly to the passport checkpoint in town, leaving my two saviors with all of my belongings. I returned about 30 minutes later after only a brief exchange with the border agent who was initially confused that I was traveling by bicycle, using local transport, rather than sailing independently. The sea and the spray gave me and my bicycle one more thrashing on a far shorter crossing to Capurganá.
By early afternoon on March 2nd, Day 174 of the tour, I arrived. Capurganá was amidst a normal day. Tourists outnumbered locals. Nearby, the Darién Gap loomed above the town, its hills cloaked in tropical forest. Access to Capurganá is only by bush plane—including a notoriously short and unreliable airstrip where livestock sometimes wander onto the runway and leave their droppings—or by sea.
I made my way first to a public water source and, as I'd done in Puerto Obaldía, I tried to remove all traces of salt water from the bike and then my bags. I resorted everything and after a short moment to absorb what had happened over the last few days—the first of many such reflection sessions—I went looking for the local passport office to request my entry stamp into Colombia.
Inside, I found smiles, curiosity, and patience—but also, no access to the national immigration database. I was told not to worry and to return the next day. In town, I quickly found a hostel and moved in. Soon I was lounging in a shaded hammock on the second floor, overlooking the coastline below. Gorgeous. Civilized. I drank deeply and drifted into a much-needed nap.
The final leg to reach connected terra firma—and resume the autonomy I’d enjoyed before Cartí—was the mainland port of Necoclí, and it was a public ferry ride away. Along the way, I booked a second night at the hostel and an outbound ticket from Capurganá to Necoclí. Despite holding a ticket, I was nonetheless denied boarding when the captain of the ferry opted to fill every inch of deck space with passengers. I waited patiently at a café, caught my breath, and reboarded the next available ferry. The crossing took about 90 minutes, even with four massive outboard engines pressing us forward.
After five uncertain, salt-soaked days at sea, I stepped onto the Colombian mainland—South America—with a deep sense of gratitude. The discomfort was real, but so too was the wonder. A renewed restlessness stirred within me, not from fatigue, but from the realization that the road ahead—now on a new continent—was mine again to follow.
Necoclí was humid, and signs of migration were everywhere. At the waterfront, tent encampments stood in quiet rows—occupied by families and individuals fleeing primarily Venezuela and Ecuador. These were people preparing to cross the same Darién jungles I had skirted by sea, only their path would take them directly through one of the most perilous land crossings in the world. Their presence forced reflection. I had endured hardship, yes—the uncertainty of the sea, delays, isolation—but these people were risking everything they had. Within days of my departure from Necoclí, Panama imposed new restrictions on migration through the Darién Gap.
Five days to Capurganá. Three boats. Countless delays. $160 USD in passage fees. And now the road returned.
With a new continent under my tires, I turned south once again.
The Andes waited.