Sailing through Panama

The San Blas; deserted island paradise. Sunken ships to snorkel, hammocks to lie in and palm trees to swing from. These islands were ours during a three-day boat tour, accompanied entirely by torrential rain.

Upon the morning of our indented departure the sun made it’s first cheeky appearance, warming our soggy ship. We slowly sailed past an island with a shack, a pier and a smiling man on it. "Huloooo" he chimed with a strong Russian accent "would you like some tea?"

Halfway through our third cup Slava looked at us with seriousness, "you don't have to leave today, you can stay here, in my hut!" "But our boat...?" I weakly questioned. "The next one is fine, tomorrow, or the next day!" he excitedly replied.

Drunk on the heat of the sun and blinded by the reflections in the perfectly turquoise sea, Bel and I accepted Slava’s offer to stay with him in his tattered bamboo shack.

He fed us endless smoky tea, coconuts, fresh tuna and lobster. Saint Slava. He explained how it was his job to install solar power and fix all the local people’s electricity. Genius Slava. He showed us pictures of St Petersburg and told us stories from the war. Tortured-soul Slava. Bel and I went snorkelling around the pier that he lazily threw his fishing line from. Fruitful Slava. When it got too dark to swim any more, we dragged our backpacks into the dingy shack to get changed. On his rickety table lay an open book written entirely in Russian, but clearly detailed with illustrations on how to kill people…with your bare hands. Assassin Slava?!

We deliberated about the best way to deal with this latest hiccup. Behind us Slava chopped pieces of wood for the fire with a huge machete, sweat pouring out of his equally large muscles.

Slightly intimidated but determined to get to the bottom of the book, we decided to confront Slava over a buffet of freshly cooked seafood that he had eagerly prepared. It was then that he explained to us how he came to live on this island. He was on the run from the Cost Rican mafia after they broke into his house and he’d put an axe through one of the henchmen’s skulls. Self-defence, killer Slava!

As the story bore on we came to realise that this Russian unit wasn’t a psycho, only a simple man whose crazy life had caught up with him. Nevertheless, the next morning Bel and I decided it was time to leave the sublime island to meet our friends in Panama City. As we slipped off into the bright morning sun, I saw a tear pool in the lonely soldiers eye.