As traditional pathways to the U.S. become more difficult, Cubans, Somalis, Syrians, Bangladeshis, Nepalis, and many more have been heading to South American countries and traveling north, moving overland up the Central American isthmus. We shoot up the trail, Cevedao in front, John right on my heels “for motivation,” until a merciful stop for water. I’ve never found it on any map. Now they could openly buy boat tickets to Capurganá and Sapzurro. During one of the half-dozen trips Carlos has since made in the region, he came upon the decomposing body of a Cuban migrant on a jungle trail.

Carlos struggles to keep up.

John and Alberto, the two porters we hired to help with our gear, are now demanding three times the agreed-upon sum—roughly $300 each.

Rahim from Pakistan had been here, along with Ahmed from Ethiopia and Yahya from Kenya. The added burden of carrying all our gear is taking its toll, forcing us to stop at shorter intervals, until we finally run out of water. Carlos sees a wheel from a Chevrolet Corvair, casualty of a 1961 expedition. Arafat shows us a large gash on the bottom of his foot and refuses to walk any farther.

“Get in touch when you make it to Vegas,” I said. Today, Paya counts on the protection of Senafront. Unknown to us, a second boat full of nine West Africans also departed from Puente America the previous night and has fallen in behind the Bengalis. Did I go too far? We’re crushed when he confirms that the migrants we traveled with were being sent back. STRADDLING THE BORDER of the republics of PANAMA and COLOMBIA, the Darien Gap is home to one of the least exploited and most diverse ecosystems in the world. Jafar in Bijao. Has Bijao’s history of war and displacement made locals more sympathetic to the migrants coming through? The Bengalis and Africans bring up the rear. The West Africans collect banana leaves for makeshift mattresses by the fire, which they feed with moss to create as much of a smoke screen against the mosquitoes as possible.

The water was just a foot deep in places, forcing us to get out and push.

Maybe they’ll be spared the onerous jungle crossing; maybe they will get a berth on an airlift; or maybe they are bushwhacking a new route through the Darién Gap at this very moment, their feet and gazes in lockstep forward against the inertia of fear and cynicism, driven by visions of something better. We offer our support not because we want to make any money.

We were hearing that people in transit to the U.S. were being turned back in droves along the Caribbean coast. I introduced myself. In English, then in French, I explain our predicament to the group and assure them that the route is easy to follow.
With more than 3 million acres of wilderness, the ecosystem found within is one of the most hotly contested, a political and environmental quagmire. From a balcony overlooking a shaded plaza that has hosted many a drunken machete fight, I watched fishermen mend their nets while others played cards. “We do this as brothers, for we believe everyone has the right to live.

But Cevedao is holding a finger to his mouth. I never really trusted these men; paying them out would give up the last shred of leverage we have. Also known as El Tapón (“the plug”), it can’t be bypassed on land.

While we were in the jungle, Colombian authorities confiscated 8.8 tons of Urabeño cocaine in a raid on a banana-plantation stash house in Turbo, the “biggest seizure of drugs in history,” the president boasted. Meanwhile, we had a new concern: on May 9, Panama abruptly closed its border with Colombia to stem the flow of migrants.

Sucking a lollipop, she told us we had to travel to a town a half-day up the Atrato to meet our primary rebel contact in the Chocó—her father, Elber. In September, the Australian newsmagazine “Dateline” will air an hour-long segment on Jason Motlagh’s expedition through the Darién Gap, using footage shot by Motlagh and videographer Roger Arnold. I arrive at a tepee-shaped structure that looks to be a marker and shout into the abyss for a while, with no reply. Authorities had caught them and brought them to Montero’s for a meal before deportation. Before dawn the next morning, we headed down to the docks. (Photo: Carlos Villalon).

This is a pay-as-you-go venture, and the only way out is through. the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia.
From the edge of the dock, I watched the boat rumble into the channel. We had been scheduled to travel there in early April, but we had to delay when Los Urabeños, excluded from peace talks with the government, called for a 24-hour strike to show that it still runs this part of the country. But his entire three-week journey has been a breathless flight from death. I can’t read their expressions in the darkness, but their intensity is palpable.

My clothes are soaked through, my fancy knee-high, French-made boots freighted with water.

Their solidarity casts a sharp contrast to ours, which is starting to unravel. We all hang back as Elber strides up the bank and greets a handsome, middle-aged black man in a tank top.

A group of traffic cops were injured by a grenade.

The entire expanse, a roadless maze that travelers usually negotiate on foot and in boats, is dominated by narco traffickers and Cuba-backed guerrillas who’ve been waging war on the government of Colombia since 1964. With Elber vouching for us, it doesn’t matter that they were unaware of our planned visit.

Over the past ten years, this flow has swelled to a steady stream as the standard maneuvers for reaching or rooting in the U.S., like overstaying a visa, have become tougher to execute. I lie back and watch the teeming forests drift by. Flanked by the PACIFIC OCEAN to the north and west and the CARIBBEAN SEA to the east, the area includes two national parks, Darien National Park in Panama and Los Katios National Park in Colombia.

While efforts by authorities to combat illegal logging and overfishing have removed the park from the UN’s list of endangered natural places, visitors are scarce. And somehow people of all stripes keep angling for our faraway borders with their dreams intact, risks and distances be damned. By land or sea, the main jumping-off point for crossings into Panama is Turbo, a dodgy Colombian port town on the Gulf of Urabá that has a bad reputation for violence. Arafat says his journey began when friends back home introduced him to a broker, who he paid more than $10,000. And they are worthy. When migrants began turning up near the border, both groups started using well-worn drug-smuggling routes to move human traffic for money.

Los Urabeños, a vicious gang made up of ex-AUC members. At least they don’t bounce back.

FARC later took responsibility for his death, accusing him of having been a foreign spy, partly because he was carrying a GPS and had no prior approval to travel. “What is the meaning of chilingos?”, Laughter.


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