The Wild and Lawless Darien Gap of Panama

December 2008/January 2009: Few places in the world are as mysterious and alluring as the dense, foreboding jungles of the Darién Gap. This is a wilderness so deep, mountainous, and hostile that it remains the only break in the Pan-American Highway, which otherwise stretches uninterrupted from northern Alaska to the southern tip of Chile. While the sheer difficulty of building a road through this terrain is a major factor, other reasons have also kept the highway from being completed. A road through the Darién would increase drug trafficking from South America, particularly from Colombia, and could facilitate the spread of foot-and-mouth disease in cattle. Though discussions about completing the highway resurface from time to time, the likelihood of it happening anytime soon remains slim to none. For now, the jungles of the Darién will continue to be one of the richest areas of biodiversity in the Americas—home to indigenous communities with little contact with the outside world, as well as a refuge for drug traffickers, bandits, and guerrilla fighters avoiding government forces.

To experience the wildness of the Darién Gap, my brother Jesse and I traveled to the Darién region of Panama for a week over New Year’s. Our plan was loosely put together, as many uncertainties lay ahead. I had reached out to locals in Panama, as well as other travelers, for up-to-date information, but the most common response I received was: “Don’t go unless you want to die.”

We didn’t have weeks to attempt a full crossing of the Darién Gap, but we intended to venture into the region, visit indigenous communities, and immerse ourselves in its rainforests. My approach was to play things by ear, speak to locals along the way, and remain flexible—if there were any signs of danger, we would change course. However, our biggest challenge was likely to be the Panamanian military, which maintains a heavy security presence in the border region. Military checkpoints are stationed throughout the Darién, and authorities are strongly opposed to allowing foreigners into the area. They don’t want the liability or the international fallout of foreigners being kidnapped by guerrilla groups in Panama’s remote jungles.

Our Route

The Darién Gap lies along the border of Colombia and Panama, spanning a 66-mile stretch of pristine rainforest with rugged mountains and vast swamplands. The terrain is notoriously treacherous, requiring more than a week to cross on foot. While a handful of adventurers have successfully made the journey, many foreigners have been captured by bandits or guerrilla groups, held for ransom—sometimes for months or even years.

Even if you manage to evade the Panamanian security forces, who actively prevent foreigners from entering, you still face the dangers of bandits, communist guerrillas, and the criminal paramilitary groups hunting them. Both factions are ruthless, and encountering the wrong people in the jungle could mean being kidnapped, held for ransom, or worse.

My brother and I planned to fly into Panama City and travel overland to Yaviza—the final stop on the Pan-American Highway and the gateway to the Darién. Our plan was to take a public transportation bus, or chicken bus, down to Yaviza, then continue by boat and on foot to Pirre Station, a remote ranger cabin deep within the protected forests of Darién National Park, an area known for its wildlife.

However, just a week before our arrival, my local contacts informed me that FARC guerrillas had invaded Pirre Station and were actively fighting with Panamanian forces. That meant Plan A was no longer an option. I quickly pivoted to Plan B—traveling up the Sambú River, an alternative route deeper into the Darién but farther south of Yaviza. However, reports of guerrilla activity along the Sambú River were also circulating, and I had no way of knowing how far we could safely travel.

After a night in Panama City, my brother and I set out on a series of buses that would take us to Metetí, where we would catch a boat ferry to La Palma. From there, we planned to find another boat to travel up the Sambú River. Although the distances were relatively short, the journey was long, grueling, and uncomfortable.

Riding in the chicken bus was an experience in itself—hot, overcrowded, and pulsating with ear-piercing Panamanian music. The bus was packed with a mix of farmers, Indigenous people, and cowboys, along with their livestock. At one point, the bus was so full that I had no choice but to sit on top of a large sack that felt strangely mushy. After a few minutes, I noticed blood seeping from the sack. A closer inspection revealed the unsettling truth—my makeshift seat was actually a sack filled with severed cow heads.

This kind of travel is never easy, but I loved every second of it. Immersing ourselves in the local way of life, navigating the journey as the locals did, and being forced to rely on Spanish—since no one in the Darién spoke English—was exactly the kind of adventure we had come here for.

Chicken bus

Passangers packed into the bus

Video of a short clip of what it was like to travel in the bus

My co-traveler, my brother

View of the bus driver in the mirror

My brother and I befriended one of our fellow passengers on the bus—a police officer who happened to be heading in the same direction as us to La Palma. His presence proved invaluable, as he helped us navigate the maze of bus connections and secured our spot on the ferry to La Palma.

Once we arrived, the officer went out of his way to welcome us, offering a place to sleep at his house. He showed us around town and took us to a lively hole-in-the-wall bar for food and beers, where the atmosphere was as rowdy as it was authentic. While hanging out at his place, I was surprised to spot a copy of The Thin Red Line in his DVD collection—a movie I had been an extra in-My Experience as a World War II Soldier in the Movie the “Thin Red Line” and My Journey to Learn More About the Battle of the Guadalcanal | Venture The Planet. When I pointed this out, his excitement was immediate. He insisted I autograph his DVD, treating me like a celebrity for the night.

The next morning, the officer asked around town to help us secure a boat up the Río Sambú to the village of Sambú. Thanks to his connections, we found someone willing to take us in a small boat at an affordable price, setting us up for the next leg of our journey into the heart of the Darién.

La Palma

My Brother and Our New Police Officer Friend We Stayed With in La Palma

Rio Sambu River

We traveled up the Río Sambú, winding through dense jungle and passing a handful of indigenous villages, but for the most part, we were surrounded by thick, untouched rainforest. The journey took five to six hours before we reached the village of Sambú, our planned launching point for further exploration upriver. To continue, we would need to hire a local guide, as the river ahead contained rapids that would eventually force us to continue on foot. My goal was to push as far upriver as possible, visiting more remote indigenous communities and seeking out wildlife.

However, our boat captain was unfamiliar with conditions beyond Sambú, so after dropping us off, he turned around and headed back to La Palma. Almost immediately, we were intercepted by the Panamanian border military and brought to an office to register. The officers seemed both puzzled and concerned by our presence. They informed us that traveling any farther upriver was out of the question—FARC guerrillas were in the area, engaged in active fighting with the military. Moreover, they told us we couldn’t leave Sambú without their approval and would be sent back to La Palma on one of their boats.

This was exactly the kind of military intervention I had been warned about, and now it was our reality. With our Plan B officially dead, all we could do was make the best of our situation. Instead of heading deeper into the Darién, we decided to explore the jungle surrounding Sambú, which was still largely intact due to the village’s small size.

We found an indigenous guide who led us into a nearby swamp forest, where we spotted small crocodiles lurking in the shallow waters. Later, we trekked through the rain and mud into the denser forest. While waiting out a downpour beneath the jungle canopy, we witnessed an amusing encounter with a sloth. Sloths only descend from trees about once a week to defecate, and as luck would have it, one began climbing down the very tree next to us. We watched in fascination as the slow-moving creature inched its way toward the ground, a journey that took nearly 20 minutes. But just before reaching its destination, it suddenly noticed us. Clearly startled, the sloth immediately abandoned its mission and scrambled back up the tree, unwilling to conduct its business with an audience.

Sambu Village

Trekking through the swamp forest looking for animals

baby crocodile

Sloth

Indigenious people in Sambu Village

A common parrot in Sambu

My brother and I were sitting around Sambú Village, trying to figure out our next move, when we met an Indigenous man who claimed to be the chief of a village farther downriver. Curious about his community, we asked if we could visit, and his response was casual and straightforward: “Why not? Sure. I’m traveling there tonight by boat.”

We quickly struck a deal—we would cover the fuel costs, and in return, he would take us to his village and let us stay the night at his house. Of course, we knew the military would never allow this. They had made it clear that we weren’t permitted to leave Sambú unless escorted back to La Palma under their supervision. Before committing, I asked the chief if his village was safe and whether there were guerrillas in the area. His answer was blunt: “Yes, there are guerrillas, but they leave us alone.”

Determined to experience the Darién beyond the military’s restrictions, we devised a plan to slip away unnoticed. As the sun set, we quietly made our way to the riverbank, where the chief’s small wooden canoe, powered by an outboard motor, was waiting. Under the cover of darkness, we pushed off and drifted down the Río Sambú, gliding through the jungle beneath the full moon. The river was illuminated in an eerie silver glow, creating a surreal and almost dreamlike atmosphere.

For a moment, I let myself be fully immersed in the magic of the moment—traveling through one of the most remote and forbidden places in the Americas, under the guidance of a chief we had only just met. But in the back of my mind, a lingering thought remained: For all we knew, this man was a guerrilla himself… and we were being kidnapped.

Escaping Sambu Village At Night 

The chief navigated us through a series of dark river inlets before pulling up to a quiet riverbank. From there, we hiked for about 20 minutes through the jungle, using our flashlights to guide us along a narrow, winding path. The thick rainforest surrounded us, the air dense with humidity and the distant hum of nocturnal creatures.

Eventually, we arrived at the village of **Chongue** (spelling unknown), a cluster of small, thatched houses raised on stilts, likely to protect against the heavy flooding from torrential rains. The structures, illuminated faintly by moonlight, gave the village a dreamlike quality.

The chief led us to his home, and we climbed a wooden ladder to reach the elevated living area, which was open on the sides to allow airflow in the jungle heat. As we entered, his teenage daughters were sitting inside, topless.  The moment they noticed us, they quickly covered their bare breasts. From my experience in Indigenous communities, I had observed that many Indigenous women only cover themselves when in the presence of outsiders—particularly white foreigners—most likely due to the influence of missionaries, who are predominantly white.

The village itself was nearly pitch black, with only a few flickering candles and the occasional beam from flashlights cutting through the darkness. In the distance, the rhythmic sound of singing and drumming echoed through the night, creating an atmosphere that felt both mysterious and inviting.

Eager to explore, my brother and I dropped off our bags and set out into the village, drawn by the music. We had brought a few glass bottles of beer to celebrate the New Year but kept them discreetly tucked away, unsure if alcohol was permitted. In some Indigenous communities, alcohol is strictly forbidden due to past struggles with its introduction by outsiders. We didn’t want to offend our hosts—at least, not before we had a better understanding of the customs in the village we had just slipped into under the cover of darkness.

With the chief in his house

Chiefs house

The beautiful music was coming from a small wooden structure, and as we approached, it became clear that a church service was taking place inside. Jesse and I, not wanting to be disrespectful, quietly left our beer outside before slipping into the back pew, doing our best to remain unnoticed.

That plan lasted all of about five seconds.

The moment we sat down, every child in the congregation discovered us. Heads turned, whispers spread, and within seconds, kids started rushing toward us. We had officially been discovered—our new fan club had arrived. A gathering of wide-eyed children formed around us, giggling, pointing, and staring in fascination. Feeling guilty for unintentionally disrupting the service, Jesse and I decided it was best to slip back out.

When we returned outside to retrieve our beer, we were met with another surprise—a group of 12-year-old boys had beaten us to it and were already drinking some. We managed to salvage what was left and retreated to the chief’s treehouse, where we spent the rest of the evening sharing our remaining beers with him.

Meanwhile, our loyal fan club of village children followed us everywhere, sitting near us in complete adoration, staring as if we were the most interesting thing they had ever seen.

Church service in the indian village

One of our new fans

Jesse with his fan club

My fan club

Village house during the day time

Even the Indigenous villagers acknowledged that guerrillas were in the forest nearby, which left me uncertain about where we could safely hike. Adding to my concern was the possibility that the Panamanian military might track us down for defying their orders and sneaking away to this village. Given the risks, I decided our best course of action was to continue deeper into the Darién, heading toward Yaviza to check if Pirre Station was safe or to explore other options.

At sunrise, the chief helped us make our escape. He paddled my brother and me out into the open river, explaining that we could hitch a ride on a passing cargo boat heading toward La Palma. Sure enough, after about 30 minutes of waiting, a large wooden vessel appeared in the distance. We waved it down, and the crew signaled for us to climb aboard.

Drifting down the river on the cargo boat, we watched the jungle slowly pass us by, the thick canopy reflecting on the murky water. When we arrived in La Palma, we wasted no time. From there, we hopped on a ferry and then navigated a series of crowded buses, eventually reaching Yaviza in the afternoon—back at the very edge of civilization and the gateway to the Darién wilderness once again.

Chief canoing us into the river to catch a passing cargo boat to la Palma

Cargo boat we hitchikied on to la Palma

River cargo boat we hitched a ride on

Me on the Cargo boat we hitchikied on to la Palma

The river from yaviza

Teenage girls in El Real  I gave this girl a ring that I found in my travels and she was very excited

Us waiting at a police checkpoint endlessely

From El Real, we continued upriver in our hired boat to La Boca de Cana, the final outpost of the Panamanian border forces and the last trace of civilization before the deep rainforest. This was where we had hoped to begin our trek along the Cana Trail, a rugged route cutting through the Darién wilderness.

Upon arrival, we were taken to the Panamanian border forces, required to register, and—surprisingly—were initially granted permission to trek the trail. However, the soldiers strongly advised against it. One of them claimed he frequently heard gunshots from the jungle and warned that if anything happened, no one would come looking for us. The message was clear: we would be entirely on our own.

Despite the warnings, we were told we could set off the next morning, so we spent the night in a small Indigenous village nearby, preparing for the trek ahead. But when we returned to the checkpoint at sunrise, our plans were abruptly shut down. Higher authorities had intervened overnight, and our permission to trek the Cana Trail had been revoked. No matter how much we pleaded, the soldiers wouldn’t budge.

Frustrated but unwilling to give up, we retreated down the river in our boat, determined to find another way into the rainforest. If the Cana Trail was off-limits, we would have to carve our own path into the wild.

As we made our way down the river, we stopped at several fascinating Amerindian villages, each offering a glimpse into a way of life largely untouched by the outside world. The people here lived in stilted, thatched-roof homes, and their traditions remained deeply rooted in their culture.

In one village, we were particularly struck by the women with intricate face tattoos, a sign of their tribal identity, while many of the men wore only loincloths. The atmosphere felt timeless, as if we had stepped into another world.

By chance, we arrived at one village just as a ceremony was taking place. The rhythmic pounding of drums echoed through the air, accompanied by deep, hypnotic chanting. Topless women, dressed in colorful, traditional skirts, moved gracefully in ritual dances, their bodies swaying to the beat. It was a mesmerizing scene—one that we felt privileged to witness.

Though we were only passing through, the experience left an impression on us. The Darién was proving to be more than just an adventure; it was a rare window into cultures that had preserved their traditions despite the encroaching modern world.

Ameri-Indian Village

Ceremony we observed

Ameri-Indian lady with tatoos

Ameri-Indian kids

Man in traditional loin cloth

While studying the map, we noticed that one of the villages we had visited sat right on the edge of the rainforest, with trails leading directly across the Darién into Colombia. Curious, we asked the Amerindian villagers if there were known routes through the jungle, and to our luck, one man agreed to take us trekking along one of them.

With that, we crossed the river and hiked into the dense rainforest. Almost immediately, it became clear that this was a true Darién Gap trail—a rugged, untamed route that could take someone all the way across the infamous jungle, completely bypassing military checkpoints and border controls.

We hiked for half a day, plunging deeper into the untouched wilderness. The rainforest was pristine, with towering giant trees and an overwhelming sense of isolation. At one point, we stumbled into an area completely infested with tarantulas—for about 20 feet in every direction, every square foot of ground and tree bark was covered with large, hairy spiders. It was an eerie but fascinating sight, a true reminder of how wild and unpredictable the Darién could be.

Though we didn’t cross the Gap, we had successfully found a viable path to do so—a discovery that felt like an adventure in itself. As we turned back toward the village, knowing we had to return to Panama City and eventually home, we reflected on the journey. We might not have made it across, but we had immersed ourselves in one of the most remote and untamed regions on Earth. The Darién had delivered exactly what we had come for: an unforgettable adventure.

Tarantula infested forest

My brother in front of a huge tree

Tarantula infested forest

Jesse and I began our journey back to Panama City that same day, making our way slowly but surely via the ever-reliable chicken bus. The ride was just as chaotic as before—packed with farmers, Indigenous families, and the occasional livestock, all crammed into the sweltering bus as loud Panamanian music blasted through the speakers.

By nightfall, we had only made it halfway and decided to break up the journey, finding a simple hotel along the way. After days of trekking through the jungle, sleeping in village huts, and navigating the untamed wilds of the Darién, even a basic bed and a cold shower felt like a luxury.

The next morning, we set off again, bouncing down the dusty roads toward Panama City, reflecting on the adventure we had just experienced. The Darién had lived up to its reputation—wild, unpredictable, and absolutely unforgettable.