Tropical Dog Shit

There were over 365 islands to choose from. 378 to be exact. As the motto went, “That’s more than an island a day for everyday of the year!”

The travel companies had mastered the art of selling it.

And we were mastering the art of buying it.

Overwhelmed. Starry eyed. And giddy with possibility, we soon realized that choosing an island for vacation in the San Blas archipelago was like being a kid in a candy store. Our adult version of the (non)dilemma was simply that the whole archipelago was said to be a spitting image of the classic Microsoft desktop island picture. The description as follows: tiny island floating in the Caribbean, ring of white sand beach and crystal clear turquoise water. Sold.

So, our thoughts ran in circles over a list of random names: Should we try Rainbow Island, the One With the Name That Can’t Be Deciphered, or Dog Island because it sounded like either an island of true friendship, or shit, literally. Such were the thoughts and dilemmas that abounded in our heads.

Our trusty guide informed us that every island did indeed have its own charm. Its character was determined in two ways. Firstly, depending on which indigenous Kuna family owned the island and whether or not they encouraged alcohol consumption and to what degree. Secondly, how many palm trees were on the island. Each varied anywhere from 1–50: a serious question when considering a place to hang your hammock and coconuts for your tropical alcoholic beverage.

As far as we were concerned though, whether we chose Rainbow, Whatever-It’s-Called, or Dog Shit– each with roughly 30 palm trees– we were pretty much guaranteed the same idyllic postcard setting. Faced with too much goodness to choose from, my best friend and I looked blankly at our guide. Being an American, he was what you could call an expert at spotting utopia (insert: hedonism). He suggested we go for that one really, really beautiful island. Remember? Dog Shit.

After a long journey from Panama City on jeep to boat, we plunked ourselves safely onto shore. For the next two nights, nature and good livin’ was to become us.

Following a detailed five-minute tour of the island we came to the conclusion that we had very well landed on paradise, decidedly so because we chose to ignore the dirty diaper and other lost treasures that had washed up ashore.

We settled into our bamboo cabin and recycled cots, which is really an overstatement of their value. To our surprise, securely positioned around each twin-sized bed were at least three crab holes and their respective owners. Their task was clear: to keep vigilant watch from one foot under each bed frame. “Safety for all, from all.” That was the unofficial motto.

Day One on the island was a Robinson Curusoe affair. First, I discovered that discovering sea urchins is never a good thing. I also discovered that dead coral doesn’t become more interesting if you close your eyes, count to five, and open them again. My most important discovery, however, was that my best friend was fucking annoying as shit. Hand in hand with this discovery was the finding that a tiny island with fewer inhabitants than your bodily holes is not the place to play hide-and-seek.

No worries, I learned that the wind on a tiny island is strong. So, I made sure to always position myself upwind as to ignore her incessant brigade of words floating downwind.

On Day One, we also met the island’s only other foreign inhabitant, a German girl travelling solo. We became like the Three Musketeers, inseparable, finding safety and good company in numbers. Unfortunately, there was only so much we could do to entertain each other, and so we read. And read. Only to be interrupted by a torrential thunderstorm in the middle of the night while sleeping on our hammocks. Then the second day came and we read until we had each finished a book within mere hours of each other. The coincidence was a great topic of conversation at that night’s crab dinner. Noted however: suspiciously missing was guard number two from under my bed.

No worries, island life has one golden rule: no counting, decidedly so because too many people have been found counting down the hours until it’s time to head back to mainland.

Night Two, we attempted a repeat at sleeping under the stars. We were daring in our reconciliation with the night sky, but we would do anything to be closer to the open air, which is code for: anything to keep us away from our cots that harboured a number of critters yet unknown to man.

After reading our new books well until our eyes had become slits, we successfully fell asleep to the sound of the waves and bristling palm leaves. A symphony of pure beauty, grand enough to wake you from your deepest dreams for an equally grand piss.

No worries, the beauty of island living is that you can pop a squat, anywhere, and the remoteness serves as your privacy. I relieved myself a few feet down from my hammock, smiling at the pure liberty of a beach-front squat.

A few moments later I would learn that the native family that owned the island also slept a few feet down from my hammock. Coincidentally, also under the stars. Naturally, I hadn’t seen them yet because I hadn’t turned around.

No worries.

After waking from a deep sleep, it’s hard to fall back into bliss. Especially when it’s eerily quiet and occasional lightning flashes serve as your only reminder of how much the shadows of palm leaves look like grasping fingers at night.

Anticipating another night of tropical thundershowers, we, the Three Musketeers, retreated back to our cots, acknowledging that the crabs were better to face than another night of hypothermia.

A half-hour passed of restless tossing and turning. Both my companions had fallen fast asleep, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. A crazy thought I knew for a ‘deserted’ island. Nonetheless, to shake the feeling I decided to undergo the SOP (standard operating procedure): a full 360 degree inspection around my body. With my headlamp securely fastened, I began my work with military precision until I found the Suspect.

He was a large– think larger– bug plotting at the foot of my bed. He had five antennas, the sixth probably lost in war. His body was slimy and his belly was pregnant with a million others like him. No worries, don’t think too much about the anatomy of all of this. Just remember the golden rule of island livin’: chill the fuck out.

Following SOP, I screamed, woke up my friend, left the German to die asleep in her cot, and bolted for the safest spot on the island, also known as the safest pot on any deserted island: the place where land meets water.

We weren’t by any means confined to the beach for two hours. Of course, since it wasn’t raining we could have comfortably gone back to sleep on the hammocks, or even climbed a coconut tree if we’d wanted. We considered those and other options, but realized everything required walking past palm trees. That’s when we remembered the other wonderful catch phrase the travel guide had sold us on: “Watch out for falling coconuts.” In our circumstances, the danger of falling coconuts suddenly became all too real. Wisely, we stayed back, beached, under the stars.

It turned out to be an incredible time of bonding with my friend. We thought of a million-and-one anti-paradise jokes; I secretly put her at the heart of every one of them. “What should you not bring to paradise?” The joke went. “You, fucker,” I’d secretly mummer under my breath.

We also spent the time not counting down the hours till departure that very morning and guarded each others backs for any unsuspecting attack.

Over time, our test of strength and endurance gave way to the sunrise. At that time we judged it safe enough to go lie down on the hammocks, which hung a comfortable distance from the ground and all other forms of creepy crawlers. We swayed on our hammocks for a minute or so, eyes wide open, brains fried from lack of sleep and active duty. Soon, the beauty of our efforts paid off with the warming colours of the morning light. Once the sun was securely risen and well in place to relieve us of our posts, we immediately fell asleep. I remember thinking: “Sunrise? Check.”

Half an hour later we awoke. Our bodies were burning like fried eggs on toast. The sun was unrelenting. No worries, there were only two-hours-and-five-minutes or so left till our boat would come to bring us back to the mainland- an estimation, of course, because we didn’t count. After a quick pack of our belongings, we waited for our ride where water meets sand, making sure we would be ready to flag our boat down. When there is more than one island for everyday of the year around you these are the kinds of things you have to take into your own hands if you ever hope to be spotted.

The boat found us without the help of our shirts draped to sticks, waving in the wind. No worries.

Admittedly, it was a bitter-sweet feeling leaving paradise. We knew we would never be back. That was the sweet bit. We also knew we couldn’t honestly call it paradise. That was the bitter part.

Overall, we were concerned about what we would say to other paradise-goers about our experience. Would they be able to see right through us and know what we really thought? That we had barely slept, been scared to death, found floating diapers, and been bored out of our wits?

No worries.

I just tell people that I’ve been to paradise and that Dog Shit was simply the best. Honestly. You’ve never even seen white-sand, sipped rum from a coconut, and discovered a creature with a missing antennae. Seriously.

Written as a satirical reflection of my stay in the San Blas archipelago, a group of islands owned by one of Panama’s indigenous tribes, Kuna. The San Blas Islands are praised as the country’s finest white-sand beaches and tropical paradise getaway.