Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
the Cuna Indians of the San Blas Islands, Panama

The engine coughed once or twice as the pilot eased the little Cessna’s nose up at the edge of the jungle. I shot a hopeful glance at a heart-shaped image of Jesus, as it swung from the instrument panel in front of me. Only in the first hours after sunrise is the air clear enough to fly over the Panamanian mountains without excessive risk. Even by ten o’clock in the morning, the upper part of the cordillera would be enveloped by dense thunderclouds.
         The crumpled carpet of jungle stretched onward below us, seemingly endless. Only one river was wide enough to cut a swathe through the dense canopy.
         “Rio Bayano,” nodded the pilot.
         So this was the ‘forbidden valley’ of the Cuna Indians. There had been about two hundred thousand Cuna scattered across this region when the ‘white devils’ arrived - even today the Indians recall the centuries of oppression that followed in their folk-tales. The last three thousand jungle-dwelling Cuna still have a reputation for violence if an outsider shows more than a passing interest in gold.
         Having been pushed eastwards across the jungle for several hundred years, the Cuna finally found themselves - between the devil and the deep blue sea - in the San Blas Islands. There is said to be an island for every day of the year in San Blas and ten uninhabited for each one that has human life. Here the Indians fought back and finally won the right to self-government in the Cuna Revolution of 1925. This chain of tiny islands on the edge of the Caribbean became the last bastion for the remaining forty thousand Cuna.
         Until thirty years ago, only a couple of westerners had been allowed to sleep in the San Blas islands. Even today if you wish to stay for more than two days the all-powerful Cumara, ‘Council of Elders,’ stresses that you should buy a copy of the Constitución de San Blas. The Cumara are strict in their policy of instant eviction for any visitor who commits such misdemeanours as swearing, topless sunbathing, abuse of the local chichi fire-water or ‘libidinous kissing in public places.’
         Most visitors to San Blas arrive on the tiny landing strip at El Porvenir Island, the headquarters of the Cuna administration. The grandly named ‘Island of the Future’ boasts a garrison (of two soldiers) and a concrete jetty as trappings of the twentieth century.
         I had arranged to stay at the privately owned island of Juan Gonzalez and a motorised dugout canoe was already waiting alongside the jetty to take me there. The cool breeze that I felt as we puttered out into the channel is one of the many factors that gives San Blas its reputation as such an idyllic holiday spot. The islands are malaria-free: any mosquitoes arriving from the mainland are gently, but firmly, wafted onward . . as if by order of the Cumara.
         The water was deliciously transparent and I leaned over the side to watch five stingrays flapping serenely under the bow. By a fluke of distribution the ray’s more unpopular cousin, the shark, cannot be found anywhere in the archipelago – another factor that only increases the desirability of San Blas in the eyes of tourists.
         American companies have offered millions of dollars for the rights to build luxury hotels in the Cuna’s hard-won ‘island paradise.’ But the Cumara defend their territory with determination and have refused even to negotiate. At the same time, a shrewd entrepreneurial outlook allows them to welcome the big-spenders of leisure yachts and occasional cruise ships.
         Señor Gonzalez’s ‘island’ (about the size of a basketball court) had been the headquarters of the Smithsonian Institute in San Blas. Having a special agreement with the Cumara (which included paying $4,000 rent a month) they had built a research centre of eight stilted huts on the island. They had apparently been perfect tenants for almost thirty years. Then, just four months ago, the Cumara had (to Señor Gonzalez’s intense disappointment) inexplicably terminated their lease.
         As the first guest to arrive at the resulting Hostel Gonzalez the patron formally welcomed me and introduced me to his wife. Ernestina’s arms and calves were covered with colourfully bracelets. Cuna women typically wear a lot of jewellery and each piece has a specific religious meaning and plays its part in warding away evil spirits.
         The olo, the thick golden nose ring that most Cuna women wear, was historically at the root of all their problems. It was the olo that first ignited the greed of the Spanish conquistadors back on the Rio Bayano.
         The pleasure of staying with the Cuna costs about $30 a day, full-board – this is expensive by Central American standards but the Cumara control accommodation prices (along with most other things) with an iron hand. Hostel Gonzalez was typically devoid of electricity and running water but when dinner consists of some of the biggest, freshest lobster in the Caribbean, it is hard to argue that the money is not well spent.
         An innovative ecological law forbids the harvesting from the sea of anything that the fisherman cannot reach using only the air in his lungs. Scuba diving is therefore illegal, but the Cuna are able to dive into the lagoon for lobsters whenever they feel like eating.
         When they are not fishing, many of the men commute to small farms on the mainland, to tend their cocoa, yucca, corn and rice, or to gardens on the islands where they grow lemons, mangoes and papayas.
         The women spend much of their time in long communal huts where they sing and chat whilst they weave their famous molas (colourfully woven cloth bearing traditional designs) for sale to tourists.
         Harvesting the coconuts amongst all these uninhabited islands is also a full time job. Each island has at least one small hut and once every two months a family is sent to collect the coconuts. Thus the harvest is arranged on a very democratic rotor basis, the nuts are distributed throughout the community and the excess is sold on the mainland.
         To the casual observer the Cuna live timeless, even primitive, lifestyles. Yet the reality is that their Cumara-enforced solidarity has brought the San Blas Cuna to the stage where they now realise a higher income than any other ethnic group in Panama.
         The large amounts of expendable wealth has lured many of the island’s inhabitants to modern apartments on the mainland and the elders are struggling against a tide of restless youngsters who are increasingly drifting towards the bright lights of Panama City.

The End