Kuna Yala
In 2008, I spent about ten days sailing through the Kuna Yala archipelago, off the Caribbean coast of Panama. At the time, I was working frequently in the country, and this journey was a chance to step away—into a world that felt, at first glance, almost untouched. The low coral islands, scattered like green dots across turquoise waters, seemed to belong to another time.
But as I spent more time among the Guna people, the romantic image I had quickly gave way to a more complex reality. Life on the islands was harsh—crowded spaces, limited resources, no running water, little electricity. The heat was constant, the horizon endless, and for many young people, the mainland seemed like the only future.
Yet there was also something deeply human in the way the Guna held on to their identity—their language, their collective decision-making, their quiet dignity in the face of encroaching change. I came away from those days with mixed feelings: a sense of privilege for having been there, but also a kind of discomfort, knowing that my presence—like that of any outsider—was part of the pressure they faced. It was beautiful, yes. But it was not paradise.
