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Once we got home, we stripped off our smelly, wet clothes and put on smelly, dry clothes. This is “freshening up” for dinner on a backpacker's clothing budget. We ate a modest meal of giant prawn, white rice and an iceberg lettuce and tomato salad. I gave my tomatoes to my friends. Watching the sun set over the Caribbean horizon, we reflected on the day’s events and talked with our tourist friends: two women from Germany and an English couple. I took advantage of the evening’s final light by writing in my travel diary. Eventually, the neighbouring picnic table filled with a group of Guna men. The red aluminum cans they drank from were either Balboas or Cokes. They’re the only drinks you could buy on the small Panamanian island, other than coldish bottled water. My friends had all purchased dollar beers and motioned cheers to the men. I quickly sensed a thick language barrier between us and the table of middle-aged and senior men. Still, they were amicable. Two men extended greetings to us, introducing themselves in both Spanish and English. Native speakers of the local indigenous language, Guna, the men became our interpreters for the night, and we began to absorb the rich conversations that were relayed to us. The maturing night cooled, and our energy soared. By midnight, we were all banging on the rotting picnic table, chanting, and handing out irrefusable drinks, joining in on the men’s drinking rites. We asked questions. We listened as they were thoughtfully answered and translated for us. They taught us some Guna phrases. We said, “Ita malando” or “Cheers” and drank with the elders. They smiled. They laughed. They gave me five too many drinks. I accepted them all, of course, it was only polite: This is how we drink on Chichime. Before that night, I felt like an invader on the little island, an isle I could lap in a leisurely 20 minutes. In a single Friday night, and over a few drinks, I felt loads more comfortable. Our European friends, who retreated to their tents earlier than we did, didn’t experience the Gunas, the inhabitants of San Blas islands, the way we did. I was tired too, of course, but I felt something unique about the moment I was experiencing with the locals that night and I knew it was something I couldn’t miss. *** The next morning, Saturday, our cook – and last night’s translator – greets us and asks us how we slept. Guna children appear and smile at us before shying back into their cabins. Before lunch, a Guna man walks us into the small forest and shares a local treat with us: a small, magenta fruit. To me, it’s not sweet, but it is probably the sweetest thing that grows on this sandy islet. On that walk, I notice a small group of Guna women sitting outside of a cabin in quiet conversation. After lunch, I amble over to them and see that they are intricately stringing coloured beads together to make jewellery. Traditionally, Guna women wear these beads on their calves on their wrists. A woman smiles as I approach and motions for me to choose one of the many patterns she had laid out, and to sit down. I try to make conversation as she wraps the dazzling beads around my wrist. Her son, she conveys to me, is next to her, beading like his mother. She doesn’t know English and I don’t know Guna, but I manage to get her name. Godina, she tells me. I remember my last day in paradise vividly. My friends and I wake up at 5:30 a.m. to watch the sun rise. It’s cloudy, but when day finally breaks, the sun shines warmly and the sky glows pink. Timid, the sun disappears back behind the clouds and I lift myself onto a hammock. That morning, I watched an indigenous man sweep the debris the tide beached overnight. He was doing his Saturday morning chores. This was, after all, his home.