I’m wading through shoals of fish in a straw hat, herding coconuts to a fishing boat. Behind me is a tropical island with a temporary population of three – me, Rubén the boat owner, who’s slashing at things with a machete, and the 15-year-old captain, who’s clinging 40ft up a palm, kicking off nuts. The buff sand beach is at least two miles long. I’ve had a fair few experiences in the exclusive category, but this is the real deal. While the pleasures are free and basic, they are also rare and extreme, and the location, while easily accessible, feels utterly remote.
Panama is a global crossroads with a beachfront capital that’s part Miami-style skyscrapers, part restored Havana, culturally rich with a revolving selection of gourmet restaurants and chic bars, but it feels undiscovered. Obviously it’s not. Balboa found it, as have, more recently, jet-setting New York and European bon vivants weary of Ibiza, Baja and the Caribbean, and Hollywood stars who’ve invested in Pacific coast designer hideaways. Indeed, it’s the fastest growing tourist destination in the Western hemisphere and accordingly has attracted hotel investors, from Nikki Beach to Trump, Four Seasons and Marriott. But its special appeal is this surprising conjunction of boundless natural beauty and the super-de luxe, not so much on the Caribbean archipelagos of Bocas del Toro and San Blas (conquered by backpackers and cruise ships), but throughout the hundreds of islands off the Pacific coast, most of which remain untouched.
And it’s partly because, as here in the 5,690 sq miles of Chiriqui Gulf National Marine Park, close to the Costa Rican border, the islands are both protected and unheralded. The hamlet of Boca Chica (one boat, one slipway, one stray dog) is the gateway to a spectacular expanse of sea, littered with uninhabited islands. We weave our way around them, trailing a hand line to catch pargo for lunch, dolphins slinking alongside, squadrons of pelicans overhead, the silence broken by the frantic scuttle of iguanas and the barks of howler monkeys.
What makes this Robinson Crusoe existence so perfect is that it ends at the dock of a boutique hotel, Cala Mia, perched in a sunset glow on a promontory dividing two of the wilderness bays. The Italian/Dutch owners, Victoria and Max, left Costa Rica for this splendid isolation, created 11 stylish screened bungalows with verandas and hammocks overlooking the sea, and added solar power, an organic farm, a pool and spa. I pad barefoot down to the beach, swim out to a lounger on a floating platform, wonder what sort of fish is making the big splashing, do a racing crawl back, have a Swedish massage and here, in the middle of nowhere, as the bats swoop, I eat one of the best meals of my life, a truly cosmopolitan affair with heart of palm and Emmental, steamed sea bass and crisp Italian pastries.
Further to the south, in the Bay of Panama, the Pearl Islands have simply been overlooked. Given there are between 97 and 220 of them (depending on your definition of an island), and they’re strung together, all creamy scalloped coasts across a turquoise sea, the nearest just an hour in a fast boat or 15 minutes on a cheap flight from Panama City, this seems extraordinary except for the fact that most Panamanians don’t like islands, beaches or flying much, preferring the orderly delights of the burgeoning all-inclusive mainland resorts. A couple (Mogo Mogo and Chapera) attained some fame as locations for several series of Survivor. Had the contestants raised their binoculars, they’d have seen migrating whales, perhaps, and the blinding white of fabulous villas on nearby Contadora.
