Ever traveled somewhere just to stay in lodging that made you go 鈥淲ow!鈥� as soon as you saw it? I have, charmed by the architecture or the amenities or the once-in-a-lifetime chance to experience a night in a treehouse or a castle or a location I recognized from a movie. With that in mind, Airbnb has a category called OMG, featuring what it calls 鈥渦nique abodes鈥濃�攁nd indeed, there are dozens to choose from that will make you marvel. I picked out nine from around the world that are weird, wonderful, and might make your next trip one of the most adventurous yet.

1. Sleep in a Tower Above the Sea, Panama

You鈥檒l have amazing views of the Caribbean from this four-story structure, located in the tropical Panamanian archipelago of Bocas del Toro. Explore area mangroves, surf the nearby Carneros point break, birdwatch鈥攜ou鈥檝e got the ideal hideout鈥攆or the more than five dozen native species, or just gaze downward into waters frequented by fish, stingrays, and dolphins. Head inland to catch a glimpse of anteaters, sloths, monkeys, and bats. A dinghy will transport you the short distance offshore to this unique tower, which sleeps up to five people. Plan to visit during the drier months, typically January through May and September through October, and pack quick-dry clothing for any surprise showers.

2. Snuggle Up in a Snow Igloo, Finland

Immerse yourself in the landscape of Lapland with a stay at this igloo, located adjacent to a lake and Pyh盲-Luosto National Park, and created winter after winter by the family that rents it out. You and up to three others will have your own bed鈥攂ut come prepared for the cold, with your own sleeping bag and adequate thermal wear, because below-zero temperatures are the norm here much of the year. (Although a nearby shared, heated house for visitors to use is available with a kitchen, toilets, and a shower.) The flip side of feeling the chill is getting to admire the northern lights, not to mention nearby cross-country trails, a downhill ski resort, and owners who work as adventure outfitters and can arrange activities in the surrounding area, including fat biking, snowshoeing, horseback riding, and ice fishing.

3. Get Grounded in This Earth Conker, Wales

It鈥檚 a metal soccer ball, a space orb, a copper conker, as Brits call it (that鈥檚 a buckeye to you and me). However you think of it, this innovative outpost offers simple pleasures amid the moors of central Wales. When the weather is wet鈥攕omething that happens on the regular鈥攜ou鈥檒l need four-wheel drive to navigate the terrain. But if off-grid is what you鈥檙e after, and a routine of daily walks in the woods, past grazing sheep, and down to the small nearby town and its pub, followed by a campfire and a homemade pizza, and maybe a bath in the outdoor tub, then this remote, for up to two people will aid what ails you.

4. Play Out the Apocalypse in This Bunker, New Mexico

Step back in time, and below ground, with an overnight visit at this historic bunker outside Roswell. The site is one of hundreds around the nation built to defend the U.S. from what were perceived as serious foreign threats during the Cold War. Unfamiliar with that period and its weapons? The owners offer a full tour of the grounds, which include a 186-foot-deep missile silo and a launch-control center, the upper level now renovated to serve as lodging for two, with kitchen essentials, a grill, and shared green space above ground. Spend your evening paging through old instruction manuals and emergency operation procedures or perusing related memorabilia鈥攐ne guest compared it to staying in a museum, with time to explore and gawk at points of interest like an escape hatch and blast doors鈥攁nd step outdoors come nightfall to enjoy the immense starry skies, or bring your binocs to birdwatch for owls.

5. Live in a Yellow Submarine, New Zealand

Now you can sing the Beatles’ song in a place nearly perfect for the lyrics. You won’t be underwater, but the coast is a quick 30-minute drive away. Instead, this cheery North Island sub is surrounded by a sea of green: forested farmland 100 miles north of Wellington. From its Beatles-themed bathroom and porthole windows to the bunk-bed quarters for four and more dials and levers than you鈥檒l know what to do with, these creative confines have charmed many an overnight guest.

6. Hang Out in the Belly of a Snake, Mexico

Likely one of the most popular picks on Airbnb, this half-serpent, half-bird, designed to resemble its eponymous Aztec god, is typically booked out months in advance. One look at its imaginative and organic design will explain why: its shape, detailed mosaic tilework and ceramic details, colored-glass windows, an open-air shared deck in the snake鈥檚 mouth, and thoughtful landscaping (both inside and out) make this a mythical, one-of-a-kind experience, as many visitors have attested. Located within a 40-acre gated community west of Mexico City, Quetzalcoatl鈥檚 Nest consists of ten residences鈥攜ou鈥檒l be staying in one in the belly of the beast, which can sleep up to six people. Getting there requires a car or an Uber, but the property鈥檚 expansive natural surrounds, open spaces, and native wildlife will tempt you to just hang out on-site.

7. Float Your Campsite, the Netherlands

Motor your platform raft around a lake and canals until you鈥檝e found just the right spot to moor for the night. You and a partner can fish, swim, birdwatch, and enjoy as much of a hermetic natural getaway as you like, far from any and all annoying campers, with this raft setup. What鈥檚 provided: a tent, a small camping kitchen and a makeshift table and chairs, a portable toilet, and a buoyant pallet with an attached outboard engine. The rest is up to you. Just 30 miles north of Amsterdam, this region is an ideal respite for a quiet weekend, with opportunities to explore nearby windmills, tulip fields, and the dunes of Bergen aan Zee, ten miles west on the North Sea coast.

8. Embrace a Box with a View on the Riviera, Italy

Such simplistic quarters are not what you鈥檇 expect to find on the Italian Riviera. But we can鈥檛 all afford to stay in a pastel-colored palazzo overlooking the sea. Small and bare-bones, this is. But how much time will you stay holed up in your StarsBox, when the beach is just minutes away by foot and you鈥檝e got an adjacent (albeit shared) swimming pool, hot tub, and sauna at your disposal? We鈥檇 argue that, if anything, these digs will prompt you to make the most of your outdoor time. After all, you didn鈥檛 come to this part of the Mediterranean to stay indoors.

9. Commune with Animals at a Biosphere, Bolivia

Just outside one of Bolivia鈥檚 most populated cities, Cochabamba, is a beetle-shaped structure set in an agricultural area and backed by the Andes mountains. The owners provide breakfast and then leave to you go about your day鈥攜ou can hike the foothills, hop the bus into town, or organize a day trip to explore nearby Tunari National Park. But La Biosfera, with its clean, white, modern design and laid-back vibe, tends to keep guests lingering around the property. Wake up to birdsong, do some yoga by the lake, and wander the grassy grounds to encounter free-roaming llamas, peacocks, geese, and other domesticated animals. Shop the local market and then wind things down by the fire pit. Or bring friends for a trip that combines relaxation with high-altitude trekking. That鈥檚 how we鈥檇 do it.

Tasha Zemke has traveled extensively around the U.S. and the world and has outgrown her desire to camp on a thin blow-up mattress. Airbnbs have become her accommodation of choice, and she spends hours looking for those with notable architecture.听She recently stayed at a shotgun-style home in New Orleans, where the city鈥檚 famous chicory coffee was stocked in the pantry, the nation’s oldest continually functioning streetcar was steps from the front door, and a favorite local shave-ice stand was two blocks away.

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Every match the Wigudun Galu volleyball team competes in is like a party. Beneath the hot Panamanian sun, players laugh and gossip, some wearing vibrant jewelry or sporting iridescent manicures. Their partners root for them from the sidelines, drinking beer and listening to music. 鈥淲hen people see us play, they are happy,鈥� Joamir Mojic, 29, says from his home in Panama City. 鈥淚t makes me feel like we鈥檙e part of society, because people accept who we are.鈥�

The volleyball team was founded in 2018 by the , a nongovernmental organization comprising people from , an Indigenous territory in northeast Panama where gender diversity is venerated. The Guna Nation鈥檚 origin story recounts the arrival of three brothers; one of them, named Wigudun, was said to possess both masculine and feminine spirits. By identifying themselves as Wigudun, the members of Wigudun Galu build upon an ancestral legacy of gender fluidity that predates Spanish colonial binaries.

The Wigudun Galu team quickly gained a reputation for their jovial presence as they played in various leagues around Panama City. 鈥淎s long as I can remember in Guna Yala, volleyball was a popular sport, as popular as baseball, basketball, and soccer,鈥� says association president Yineth Layevska Mu帽oz Avila, 40. 鈥淭here were always men鈥檚 and women鈥檚 teams, but there were never Wigudun teams when I was growing up.鈥� Despite the discrimination that trans and gender-nonconforming people commonly experience in Panama, Mu帽oz Avila says the Wigudun team has always been accepted by the teams it competes against.

After the pandemic cut the 2020 season short, the Panamanian government鈥檚 policies left many Wigudun players vulnerable. As COVID-19 spread across the globe, Panama implemented lockdown measures that stipulated which days citizens could leave their homes according to the sex listed on their national identification cards. The protocol , who police and civilians accused of being 鈥渙ut on the wrong day鈥� as they tried to buy food and medication.

In February 2021, the lockdown was lifted, freeing up the members of Wigudun Galu to start competing again by spring. , who is from Massachusetts, became acquainted with Wigudun Galu while volunteering with the local , which distributed food kits to trans people during lockdown. 鈥淭here was this switch, seeing people I had met in really difficult situations suddenly outside and jumping in the air,鈥� the 29-year-old says of attending her first match. 鈥淚t was a freedom nobody had experienced in the past year, but especially the trans population.鈥�

Photographing the players, Katzman says, was a visual way of showing Wigudun strength in the face of adversity. 鈥淏ut they鈥檙e also just there to have fun,鈥� she says.

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The scene opens with a bright red male frog making a sustained chirping sound from his shaded spot of rainforest; he鈥檚 calling for mates. But soon another male enters his patch. Extreme close-ups show their huge moony eyes meeting, their glossy little snouts听twitching in anticipation. 鈥淣othing for it but to fight it out,鈥� Attenborough says, and the frogs lunge at each other. Sticky hands are thrown, leaves fly, and one frog tosses the other over his shoulder in an undignified manner. It鈥檚 a high-stakes, slow-motion battle for dominance over a precious spot of land that will help the best frog win a mate.听

Or as an expert would put it, it鈥檚 like 鈥渢wo gummy bears going at each other,鈥� says , whom filmmakers consulted on how to capture the fight scene and whose poison dart frog research features in the documentary. 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 have claws, they don鈥檛 have teeth, they can鈥檛 really hurt each other.鈥� The feisty personalities that come through in the frogs鈥� scene, she says, are not just fun little tricks of cinematography. In fact, they were exactly what made it possible to film something that looked so high-stakes in the first place (even if no one got hurt in the end).听

Yang moved from Taiwan to the U.S. to pursue her PhD, studying color evolution through the strawberry poison dart frog, which she completed last year.听(The documentary team got in touch in 2019.) Her work often explores sexual selection and color variation within a species, so naturally Yang was fascinated by Bocas del Toro. The poison dart frogs there have the brightest and most varied hues of any frogs in the world, appearing in a range of colors from pale blue to bright orange. The population on each island is a different shade, since they evolved in isolation from each other. The frogs鈥� brightness generally indicates how toxic they are, in order to warn predators. Less poisonous frogs tend to be paler with more camouflage-ready colors like green, while more poisonous frogs are familiar 鈥渄on鈥檛 eat me鈥� colors like red or orange鈥攁nd have bolder personalities to match.听

While getting her PhD, Yang wanted to better understand why the grape-sized frogs come in so many shades and what color means to them. One of her research methods, depicted in the third episode of Life in Color, involved creating 3D-printed model frogs which she hand-painted to resemble different colors of frogs found on each island and moved around with a remote control. She wanted to see if real frogs would react differently to each of them, and they did: it appeared that they would attack other frogs only if they were the same color. They simply ignored frogs of different shades.听听

All of this helped filmmakers understand when frogs would be more aggressive toward each other, which was key to successfully setting up the perfect shot for Life in Color. The aim was to demonstrate just how important color was in everything the frogs did, from warning off predators to showing potential mates their fitness. Yang knew that a more toxic frog wouldn鈥檛 be shy around camera equipment, and that Solarte Island would be an ideal place to shoot because the red-orange frogs there are among the most aggressive. She also knew that the two frogs would need to be the same color if they wanted to capture a battle. But 鈥渢wo frogs is actually harder to get,鈥� Yang says, 鈥渂ecause you will want frogs that are both territorial, and in the case of a natural habitat, usually they already have their territories carved out.鈥� The camera crew would need to locate two male frogs that were close enough to each other鈥檚 territories for a potential clash, set up the shots and lighting, and stick around long enough to hopefully see one.听

As anyone who read every single article about the Planet Earth II marine iguana scene (just me?), it鈥檚 not exactly a closely held secret that most nature films take cinematic liberties to tell a story. The Life in Color team had to cross their fingers they鈥檇 witness a frog fight, but the rest of the visual storytelling was carefully planned out beforehand. The camera crew captured images like close-ups of the frogs鈥� pugnacious-looking little faces, and establishing shots of the intruder frog entering the scene, at different times using unobtrusive telephoto lenses. The footage could then be knitted听together to create a cohesive story of two confident frogs who meet on a patch of rainforest that鈥檚 not big enough for the both of them.

But the Play-Doh-limbed fight itself plays out on screen exactly as it happened, enhanced only by slowing down certain clips for dramatic effect. In real life, you鈥檇 see two penny-sized frogs听making jerky hopping motions at each other for a few seconds. The final scene plays out over several minutes, and it鈥檚 hard not to anthropomorphize the two angry little guys by the time we have a clear victor. 鈥淭hey just yielded themselves beautifully to drama, to humor,鈥� says Sharmila Choudhury, a producer on the documentary. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e kind of the dream subjects for filming.鈥� For Yang, seeing the subjects of her PhD听research in a big-time听nature documentary was a treat, and听she loves that the film helps other people understand why her study species is cool. And there was an added bonus for Yang as a longtime Attenborough fan: 鈥淚 had to pause the video and scream when I heard him say my name.鈥澨�听

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In case you haven鈥檛 heard, minimalism is in. Everyone from Marie Kondo to #vanlifers听are听preaching the value of cutting back on clutter and replacing stuff with experiences. There鈥檚 research to back them up: a from Cornell University showed that experiential and uncommon purchases, like flights, tend to bring young people more happiness and are better remembered than material gifts. So听if you鈥檙e stuck on what to get your friend, family member, or partner for the holidays this year, consider buying them a plane ticket for a trip they won鈥檛 forget听颈苍stead of the latest tech that will be obsolete in two years anyway.听

Given the fact that Americans receive 听time than workers in other countries, gifting a plane ticket seems like a risky endeavor. But听sites like Gotogate or Spirit鈥檚 Flight Flex allow you to book flexible tickets, while ,听, ,听, and听听also have the option to buy, gift, or transfer miles, so your loved ones can book their flights when it works best. Other companies also offer 听for airline travel. The only thing left to do is to decide where to send them. These six destinations will work for whatever type of traveler you have in your life.听

For the 国产吃瓜黑料 Seeker

Sinai Peninsula, Egypt听

While Egypt is usually known for its history and culture, the Sinai Peninsula offers abundant . has stunning coral reefs that are home to many of the Red Sea鈥檚 100 fish species. Experienced scuba divers should check out the Blue Hole, off the coast of Dahab, a sinkhole with crystalline water that鈥檚 more than 300 feet deep.听Those who want to stay on dry land can tackle the Sinai Trail, Egypt鈥檚 first long-distance walk. Opened in 2015, the trail stretches 150 miles from the Gulf of Aqaba, just east of Sinai, then听takes听hikers to the top of 8,625-foot Mount Catherine, Egypt鈥檚 highest peak. Note: the route takes about 14 days to complete, and all visitors must .听

Best time to go: June through August
Price tag: Round-trip airline tickets to start at around $1,200 from Los Angeles and Chicago听and $900 from New York City.听

Boquete, Panama

One of the most noteworthy aspects of Boquete is the hike to the peak of Bar煤听Volcano, 笔补苍补尘补鈥檚 highest point at 11,398 feet. Reaching the top of the active stratovolcano involves a strenuous eight-mile trek from the Volc谩n Bar煤 National Park ranger station, but it鈥檚 worth it as it鈥檚 one of the few places in the world where you can see both the Pacific Ocean and Caribbean Sea at the same time. The nearby Lost Waterfalls Trail, about 20 minutes from Boquete, in Los Naranjos, is a more moderate four-mile round-trip hike to three falls through the thick rainforest of a private nature reserve. It offers the chance for both swimming and spotting monkeys, sloths, and tapirs. Along the way to the Lost Waterfalls, stop at Los Ladrillos, a natural basalt climbing wall featuring听top-rope climbing on more than 30 easy-to-expert routes.

Best time to go: February through March or September through October
Price tag: Round-trip flights to 听start at around $700 from Los Angeles and $800 from Chicago and New York City.听

For the One Who Needs a Vacation听

Lake Louise, Alberta

Located in Banff National Park in the Canadian Rockies, Lake Louise is the epitome of Instagram-photo tranquility, with bright blue waters ringed by soaring peaks. Along with plentiful skiing and hiking opportunities, Banff offers tons of opportunities to kick back. Banff Upper Hot Springs has mineral water rising from 1.8 miles below the earth鈥檚 crust, naturally heated to 104 degrees. Or听 for a scenic, relaxing paddle on the lake鈥檚 turquoise waters. For a treat, book your loved one a room at the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise (from $260), which has programs in meditation, yoga, and creativity coaching.听

Best time to go:听Late June through mid-September听
Price tag: Round-trip flights to start at around $300 from Los Angeles and $500 from Chicago and New York City.

Provence, France

Best known for , Provence also caters to outdoor enthusiasts. The nine-mile Blanc-Martel Trail winds through the Gorges du Verdon river canyon, often called Europe鈥檚 most beautiful,听with views of turquoise-green water and dramatic cliffs. There鈥檚 also the three-hour P锚cheurs circuit trail, a moderate walk that climbs down to the water and back up again, with听options to paddle and boat along the river. Or take a tour of the blooming lavender fields at S茅nanque Abbey in Gordes between June and August. And听of course, don鈥檛 leave without sampling ros茅 at the famous Ch芒teau听de Berne.听

Best time to go: March to May and September through November听
Price tag: Round-trip flights to 听start at around $650 from Los Angeles, $550 from Chicago, and $500 from New York City.听

For the History Buff

Mexico City, Mexico

Museum lovers can spend days traversing the hallways of the National Museum of Anthropology, right across from Chapultepec Park, which houses one of the world鈥檚 largest collections of pre-Columbian artifacts. Then听there鈥檚 the living history: the famed , a Unesco听World Heritage site, has over 2,000 ruins, including the Pyramid of the Moon, the Pyramid of the Sun, the Ciudadela (Citadel), and the Temple of Quetzalcoatl. There鈥檚 also Templo Mayor Museum, the most prominent temple of the Mexican people, located near Z贸calo, the city鈥檚 main public square. More modern history can be found at the National Palace or while walking the streets of Coyoac谩n, home to Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera鈥檚 colorful Casa Azul, as well as Marxist revolutionary Leon Trotsky鈥檚 house and place of death. While primarily an urban landscape, outdoor offerings abound within two hours from the city center, including hikeable听volcanoes听like听Nevado de Toluca (15,354 feet) and Iztaccihuatl (17,126 feet).

Best time to go: March through May
Price tag: Round-trip flights to start at around $250 from Los Angeles, $260 from Chicago, and $290 from New York City.听

Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic听

Santo Domingo is one of the Caribbean鈥檚 oldest cities and a Unesco听World Heritage site. The Zona Colonial is the town鈥檚 historical center, which includes Catedral Primada de Am茅rica听(the first cathedral in America),听Fortaleza Ozama, a retired military fort, and Calle Las Damas, the oldest street in the city. About a five-mile drive from the city听sits , with three open-air limestone caverns, each holding an iridescent lagoon. Even the area鈥檚 natural wonders are steeped in history: once used for ceremonies, the caves feature pottery shards and petroglyphs.听

Best time to go: November through March
Price tag: Round-trip flights to 听start at around $290 from Los Angeles, $250 from Chicago, and $220 from New York City.听

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A scroll through Instagram is a sure-fire way to get travel-inspired. But plug those mountain towns听and remote islands into your Google flight search, and the logistics and costs involved can make anywhere far from a major city feel inaccessible.

But arm yourself with some insider听颈苍tel, like when to book your flight and how to get creative with your connections, and you can make almost any obscure destination a reality. We consulted industry experts for their tips on getting to and from out-there locations on a budget.

Get Creative with Low-Cost Airlines and Regional Airports听

There鈥檚 a where low-cost carriers offer better fares out of smaller, regional airports than large hubs. The more popular airlines dominate big airports because they can take over a terminal and service a massive amount of people daily. In this model, regional airlines find it harder to compete due to outsized brand recognition, so they turn to tiny, local airports.听

鈥淚n the U.S., for example, you can save money on flying with Norwegian Airlines to Dublin out of [upstate New York鈥檚] Stewart Airport, located an hour and a half by airport shuttle (from $20) from New York City, for a median airfare of about $385, versus flying out of John F. Kennedy Airport [on the same airline], which can cost upwards of $500,鈥� says Steven Sintra, regional director of North America at . Carriers like Frontier and Southwest are also known for servicing smaller airports to lure customers. You don鈥檛 have to stick with one airline for your entire booking, either. According to Sintra, 鈥淥ftentimes, booking two one-way tickets on different airlines can save you money versus booking a traditional round-trip ticket.鈥澨�

For your international arrival, this argument is inverted. Because flying into a smaller airport is usually your only option, direct flights from international hubs are typically sky-high. According to Jesse Neugarten, founder of budget flight-finding site , 鈥淣inety-five percent of the time, it鈥檚 going to be more expensive to fly directly into smaller airports than bigger ones,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 simple supply and demand.鈥�

The solution? Fly into a major airport and book a separate connecting flight to a smaller one. He gives the example of the Galapagos Islands, off the coast of Ecuador. 鈥淩oundtrip flights from U.S. hubs to the islands run roughly $1,500 on average,鈥� he says. 鈥淸Instead], you can fly roundtrip into Quito for $300 to $500, then book another roundtrip to the Galapagos for around $200. Just by doing that, you鈥檝e saved [as much as] $1,000.鈥澨�

Time Your Booking

Although some of the old-school advice you鈥檝e heard, like booking late at night or on Tuesdays, has largely been discredited, timing your booking correctly is still crucial to ensuring you get the best price.听

First off, start your search听two to three months in advance for domestic flights and three to five for international flights, suggests Neugarten. When you see a great fare that far out, his advice is to jump on it鈥攊t won鈥檛 last long, and you鈥檙e unlikely to find a cheaper price by waiting. He also notes that if you can be flexible, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday are the cheapest days to fly. Most booking sites, include Google Flights, have a calendar view option that allows you to compare ticket prices across days and months to quickly find the cheapest travel dates.听

Time of year can also make a difference. 鈥淲e typically see a decrease in median airfare for those searching for travel in January, as opposed to April or May,鈥� Sintra says. 鈥淭his is likely because they鈥檙e traveling in March or April鈥攖wo of the cheapest travel months of the year.鈥� The two most expensive months are easy to guess: July and August, where most destinations enjoy warmer and drier climes.

Save on Rental Cars

If you can鈥檛 fly into a small local airport, your other option is to fly into a large airport and make up that distance by renting a car. Between credit cards and discount memberships, there are plenty of ways to knock some cash off of your rental.听

or offer some of the best discounts around. With a Costco membership ($60 a year), you get a 30-percent discount on major car rental brands such as Budget, Enterprise, and Hertz, as well as the ability to add a second driver free of charge.听

Car sharing companies like , which services cities across the U.S., Canada, Germany, and the U.K., have made car rental more accessible in destinations that typically didn鈥檛 have a market for it. You can book a variety of cars and SUVs online and many car owners will even provide delivery to the airport or a convenient location. For more out-of-the-way destinations, oftentimes, your best cost-saving bet is going through local companies, like in Iceland and in New Zealand.

Make the Most of Your Layover

Traveling to distant spots鈥攁nd taking advantage of those handy connections鈥攗sually means a long layover. Sintra encourages travelers to not just endure a layover, but to enjoy it. 鈥淪everal airlines such as Icelandic Air, Finnair, Air Canada, and TAP offer stopover programs so strategic travelers can get two vacations for the price of one,鈥� he says. Kayak鈥檚 recent Travel Awards Guide offers a list of top stopover destinations, including Reykjav铆k, Helsinki, and Panama City.听Some of those airlines, like TAP (which makes pit stops in Lisbon and Porto, Portugal), even offer upgrades that let you explore the city for five days with discounts on hotels and restaurants.

If leaving the airport isn鈥檛 an option, you can still get a much-needed reprieve without stepping out of the double doors. Frequent travelers should get a credit card, such as , that includes lounge access. Or check out , a lounge-crashing app that often allows you to purchase access for rates that compete with a typical airport meal.听At other airports, you can partake in luxuries without a pass at all: Munich, Dubai, and London Heathrow are among the airports that have nap pods, beer gardens, yoga rooms, and pet parks. 听

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Itz鈥檃na Resort

Belize

Opening in April, 听is a perfect base camp for exploring the best of Belize. Night-hike the world鈥檚 only jaguar reserve in search of the nocturnal cats? Check. Swim with whale sharks during their annual migration? Check. Sail to empty isles for private snorkeling sessions? Check. Float in the waters of the iconic Great Blue Hole? Check. Cast for wahoo lurking beyond one of the planet鈥檚 largest barrier reefs? Check. But good luck prying yourself away from Itz鈥檃na鈥檚 lush 20-acre property. The 30-suite resort sits on the Placencia peninsula, a 16-mile-long finger of perfect white sand that separates a mangrove-lined lagoon from the Caribbean. It鈥檚 all too easy to spend your days bouncing from the , offering one of the largest rum selections in the country, to the , which serves reef-to-table snapper and conch on a deck over the azure water. From $325 鈥擥raham Averill

听

Guatemalan Highland Tour

Guatemala

In 2014, Vermont native Brendan James was working for a nonprofit in Guatemala when some locals loaned him a hardtail mountain bike and led him along ancient Maya paths weaving around Lake Atitl谩n. He found fast trails flowing through cool, alpine forests and a homegrown zeal for the sport that鈥檚 only flourished since. Today, Guatemala is becoming Central America鈥檚 premier fat-tire destination, with newly built singletrack and bike parks opening across the country. James now spends 150 days a year scouting those trails and leading trips for his guiding company, . This year he鈥檚 launching the , a seven-day, 96-mile cross-country epic with 29,000 feet of downhill. Along the way, you鈥檒l follow livestock trails and old agricultural paths past 14th-century ruins, crash in small-town posadas, and relax in natural hot springs. From $2,375 鈥擳im Neville

Mukan Resort

Mexico

Reaching this 听颈苍 the Riviera Maya requires a 45-minute speedboat ride through mangrove canals, so it feels far removed from the region鈥檚 hot spot of Tulum. But there are other reasons this luxurious property stands out, namely that its ten suites, bungalows, and villas are among the very few accommodations nestled inside the 1.3-million-acre , a Unesco World Heritage site containing Maya ruins, a section of the 620-mile-long Mesoamerican Reef, and a jungle filled with diverse wildlife including 356 species of birds and 318 species of butterflies. 听颈苍 search of sea turtles, scout the biosphere and add threatened birds like the reddish egret to your life list, or fish for tarpon, permit, and barracuda with local guides who have plied these waters since childhood. The day鈥檚 catch is served on a dock over Sian Ka鈥檃n Lagoon. From $420 鈥擲tephanie Pearson

Isla Palenque

Panama

Want to play out a castaway fantasy? Newly revamped , located on the pristine Gulf of Chiriqu铆, along the country鈥檚 Pacific coast, ticks all the right boxes鈥攚ith some rather exquisite enhancements. More than half of the 400-acre private island is a nature preserve that neighbors Coiba National Park, a 38-island, 673-square-mile expanse filled with dolphins, leatherback turtles, and whitetip reef sharks. First envisioned as a safari-style camp in 2012, the resort owners reinvented it last summer by constructing eight thatch-roofed casitas just steps from seven gloriously empty beaches. Spend your days exploring reefs and nearby islands like Las Pi帽alitas by boat, kayak, or paddleboard, or hike to archeological sites full of pottery shards and stone tools left by the island鈥檚 pre-Colombian inhabitants. Come evening dine on local favorites like 谤辞苍诲贸苍, an Afro-Caribbean coconut stew, while keeping an eye out for breaching humpbacks. If you book through our travel partner , you鈥檒l get four nights for the price of three. From $770 for two people, all-inclusive 鈥擳.N.

The Maya Experience, Ka鈥檃na Resort

Guatemala and Belize

Tikal, the capital of Central America鈥檚 ancient Maya civilization, was discovered in Guatemala in the mid-1800s, and its stone temples have been a popular tourist destination for de-cades. But the extensive system of roads and canals that connected Tikal to thousands of previously unknown Maya structures wasn鈥檛 uncovered until 2016, when researchers began using planes and lasers to pierce the dense jungle canopy and map what鈥檚 been dubbed the Maya Megalopolis. Fernando Paiz, whose Foundation for Maya Cultural and Natural Heritage spearheaded the research, also owns the plush 听颈苍 neighboring Belize. Last spring he blended his two passions to create Ka鈥檃na鈥檚 new , a deep immersion into the ancient culture. You鈥檒l follow guides into the jungle on the way to the 77-foot-tall temple of Cahal Pech, learn to cook traditional dishes like the citrus-marinated pork known as poc chuc, or ride in a helicopter with Paiz and marvel as he recounts how the network of structures below is just beginning to be understood by archeologists. From $1,117 for two people 鈥擥.A.

Origen Escapes

Costa Rica

This country鈥檚 pura vida energy and epic surf spots aren鈥檛 a secret. But Costa Rica still has plenty of untapped terrain. , a no-expenses-spared bespoke outfitter, specializes in taking clients to the country鈥檚 untouched corners. In December, Origen鈥檚 four owners鈥攊ncluding Ofer Ketter, a former lieutenant in the Israel Defense Force, and expert waterman and Costa Rican native Felipe Artinano鈥攗sed their years of expertise to launch the Transformational Travel Series, a group of one-to-two-week itineraries highlighting environmental responsibility and local conservation efforts. Adventurous travelers can 听or raft 16 miles of jungle-shaded rapids, while citizen scientists can head off the grid with top naturalists to document new species or track migrating hammerhead sharks. From $1,200 per night 鈥擩en Murphy

Sansara Surf and Yoga Resort

Panama

While parts of Central America sometimes feel overrun with surfboard-toting gringos, Panama has maintained an undiscovered vibe, especially along the southerly Azuero peninsula. The country鈥檚 cultural heartland, this region features Spanish colonial churches, biologically diverse national parks, and some seriously great waves from December to May. Located in the sleepy village of Cambutal, 听11 cabanas are just steps from the Pacific Ocean, and with nearby beach, point, and reef breaks, you鈥檙e sure to find the wave you鈥檙e looking for. Choose from all-inclusive weeklong , or create your own 脿 la carte trip filled with offshore tuna fishing, snorkeling, and afternoons spent lounging in the natural pools of a nearby waterfall. No matter which you pick, the use of bikes, SUPs, and kayaks is included in your stay. From $199 鈥擩.M.

Yemaya

Nicaragua

Political unrest in this country over the summer and fall鈥攄uring which protesters clashed with security forces over government corruption鈥攕cared away so many travelers that numerous lodges and tour operators had to shutter their doors. Now, as the turmoil appears to be calming down, traveling here will help these businesses get back on their feet, and resorts that were never near the unrest are enticing visitors with deals. Consider , a 16-bungalow hideaway on the northern tip of Little Corn Island, a carless, 1.2-square-mile dollop of sand 45 miles off the mainland in the Caribbean. The property was revamped in 2017 with five remodeled luxury suites, and it鈥檚 slated to reopen in time for the winter holiday season with cut rates of $95 per night, leaving you to splurge on sundowners from the beachside bar, in-room massages, and 听on its 40-foot handcrafted sailboat. 鈥擳.N.

Acantilados

El Salvador

The surf-focused Salvadorean town of La Libertad has never seen anything like . The sleek 19-room boutique hotel, which opened in November, sits cantilevered over a cliff, exponentially amping the drama of the infinity pool. Surf the classic right-hand point break of El Sunzal in the morning, with or without an expert instructor, then stave off gnawing hunger at El Casco, a renovated century-old colonial house on the property that serves pupusas, tamales, quesadillas, and 苍耻别驳补诲辞蝉鈥�sweet Salvadorean dumplings. In the evening, soak your tired muscles in the saltwater pools, then head to the hotel鈥檚 craft-cocktail bar for a Martini Albahaca y Sandia, a mix of watermelon, basil, and vodka. Hikers should make the 90-minute drive northwest to 听and summit 7,812-foot Santa Ana, the country鈥檚 highest volcano. The view of turquoise Lake Coatepeque is worth it. From $159 鈥擲.P.

Honduran Coffee Route

Honduras

Even though crime has dropped by half over the past five years, Honduras still gets a bad rap. Wandering around the city of Tegucigalpa alone at night was never a great idea, but don鈥檛 judge a country by its capital. This fall, Central America鈥檚 second-largest nation has made it easier than ever for travelers to check out one of the things Hondurans do best: grow delicious coffee. The new 听isn鈥檛 a single road but a network of sustainable farms, regional tasting labs and research centers, and more than 60 lively caf茅s in six distinct growing regions. The maps and resources on the route鈥檚 website will help you craft your itinerary. Keep it simple by focusing on one region鈥攍ike Cop谩n, home to a magnificent tenth-century Maya city and seed-to-cup coffee varietals with hints of chocolate, caramel, and orange. Get a room at (from $124), which once catered to archeologists, and spend a morning taking a hike around Finca Santa Isabel, a 200-acre family-run coffee plantation with 85 species of birds, like white-breasted hawks and bushy-crested jays. If you鈥檇 prefer to have a guide, Cop谩n鈥檚 Xukpi Tours can take care of housing and transportation. 鈥擳.N.

The Whole Shebang

For cyclists who want to see it all鈥擬exico鈥檚 Maya ruins, Guatemala鈥檚 volcano-ringed Lake Atitl谩n, El Salvador鈥檚 sublime surf breaks, Nicaragua鈥檚 colonial cities, Costa Rica鈥檚 jungle, the Panama Canal, and the unsung spaces in between鈥攕ign up for the Mexico City to Panama City leg of . For 2019, this 2,467-mile, 40-day van- and chef-supported portion of the 9,013-mile journey has been rerouted so that all but eight miles are paved (though paved is a relative term, so bring a comfortable bike with beefy tires). From $8,000 鈥擲.P.

The post The 11 Best New Reasons to Visit Central America appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Filmmakers , , and听 spent three weeks exploring the rich ecosystem of Panama. They started their journey through this Caribbean paradise in听Bocas Del Toro, then began climbing the nearby volcanoes and other lush mountains. They finished their journey in Panama City,听capturing some amazing cityscape footage for this film. Find more from Vincent Urban on .

The post A Glimpse Into Life in Panama appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

鈥淗uelo chilingos,” the boatman shouts over the drone of an outboard motor. I smell migrants.

I turn around and see nothing but a wall of dark, unruly jungle, then I slump back into the bow of the canoe. Five days we鈥檝e been out here, waiting for a group of foreigners to appear on this godforsaken smuggler鈥檚 route in the Dari茅n Gap, and all we have to show for it is sunburn and trench foot. Our search is starting to feel futile.

For centuries the lure of the unknown has attracted explorers, scientists, criminals, and other dubious characters to the Gap, a 10,000-square-mile rectangle of swamp, mountains, and rainforest that spans both sides of the border between Colombia and Panama. Plenty of things here can kill you, from venomous snakes to murderous outlaws who want your money and equipment. We鈥檝e come to find the most improbable travelers imaginable: migrants who, by choice, are passing through the Dari茅n region from all over the world, in a round-about bid to reach the United States and secure refugee status.

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. The worst part of this journey is through the Gap. 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鈥檝e been waging war on the government of Colombia since 1964. Hundreds of migrants enter each year; many never emerge, killed or abandoned by coyotes (migrant smugglers) on ghost trails.

Our attempted trip is possible only because we鈥檙e traveling with the permission of (FARC), the Marxist rebels who control access to the most direct line through the Gap鈥攁n unmarked, 50-mile, south-to-north route that鈥檚 also used to move weapons and cocaine. Following months of negotiations, FARC commanders based in Havana have agreed to let us attempt the trek and visit a guerrilla camp, so long as we keep the main focus on migration, not politics. After five decades of fighting, at a cost of more than 220,000 lives on both sides, FARC and the Colombian government are in the final stages of a peace deal that would end Latin America鈥檚 longest-running insurgency. No more complications are needed.

Having spent the better part of a week idle in Bijao鈥攁 ramshackle hamlet on Colombia鈥檚 Cacarica River, which a group of migrants is said to be approaching鈥攚e鈥檙e restless. So today we traveled three hours by boat to visit FARC rebels on an adjoining waterway. An entire morning was spent hacking through spider-infested mangrove swamps to reach their camp, only to be told that our scheduled interview is off because they don鈥檛 have their uniforms with them.

We are on our way back to the village, cursing our bad luck, when the boatman repeats himself.

鈥淗uelo chilingos.鈥�

鈥淏ullshit,鈥� I sigh.

鈥淣o, man, he鈥檚 right鈥擨 think I saw an elbow,鈥� says , a Chilean photojournalist who鈥檚 traveling with me. Carlos, 50, has a knack for busting my balls at the worst moments, but he鈥檚 already standing up, camera in hand. Roger Arnold, a 48-year-old videographer I met in Afghanistan, who鈥檚 along to film our trip for a TV newsmagazine in Australia, is poised right beside him.

We round a bend and there they are: two Bangladeshis, bent over, sloshing forward in waterlogged rubber boots. They give us a nervous grin, thumbs up. Twenty yards ahead of them, a big, shirtless Colombian coyote is towing a canoe that contains another half-dozen migrants. Several Nepalis slog alongside.

I catch up to explain that we鈥檙e journalists, but none of the men speak much English. Nor do they believe what I鈥檓 telling them.

When I ask Arafat, a 20-year-old construction worker from the Noakhali district in southern Bangladesh, if his goal is to reach the United States, he shakes his head. 鈥淣o, no. Tourist,鈥� he says, patting his chest. 鈥淧roblem?鈥�

There鈥檚 no problem, I assure him as I approach the canoe, which is nearly scraping the bottom of the low-running river. Arafat鈥檚 friend Jafar leans back and laughs behind a pair of knockoff gold Ray-Bans. 鈥淵eah, man!鈥� he says. 鈥淧anama!鈥� More thumbs up.

This tourist charade soon falls apart. A pudgy Bangladeshi man named Momir, his face ghoulishly pale from fever, rejects the coyote鈥檚 order to get out of the boat when it runs aground. Arafat shows us a large gash on the bottom of his foot and refuses to walk any farther. The men are weak from days of traveling in muggy, 90-degree temperatures, subsisting on crackers and听gulping river water. And they are scared. For all they know, we鈥檙e Colombian authorities about to arrest them, or bush thugs ready to strip them of their remaining cash, stitched inside the lining听of their pants.

Jafar starts to cry, triggering an outburst of desperate pleas from the men. They flash scars on their wrists and stomachs; one is missing part of a finger. 鈥淏angladesh politics,鈥� a man named Nazrul says ruefully as he drags a hand across听his neck.

During a three-month stint reporting in Bangladesh in 2013, I became familiar with its cutthroat political gangs and dismal working conditions. Activists, journalists, and opposition members are often hacked to death in public. Rising water levels are drowning farmlands. Rural laborers flock to hyper-crowded cities for work and find themselves locked in the bowels of unlicensed garment factories, toiling for 20 cents an hour.

It鈥檚 easy to understand why any sane person would leave such grim prospects behind. Harder to grasp is how these men ended up on the southern edge of the Dari茅n Gap, half a world away from home, without the faintest idea of the grueling trials ahead. Their willpower is amazing, but the Gap鈥檚 shadowy depths have swallowed travelers far more prepared. As听we continue upriver together, it seems just as well that they are ignorant of the dangers.

is a remarkable feat of engineering that runs about 19,000 miles from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, to Ushuaia, Argentina, with just one break in the pavement: the Dari茅n Gap. Also known as El Tap贸n (鈥渢he plug鈥�), it can鈥檛 be bypassed on land. It鈥檚 roughly 100 miles wide, stretching all the way from the Caribbean Sea to the Pacific Ocean. It has long defied the advance of colonists, road builders, and would-be developers.

The Gap鈥檚 legend as a black zone is steeped in bloodshed and tragedy. After Spanish conquistadors discovered the region in 1501, they consolidated their first mainland colony in the Americas by slaughtering tens of thousands of natives, often by turning ravenous dogs loose on villages. The Spanish conquered the Amazon and the Andes but eventually gave up on taming the Gap, which became a bastion for pirates and runaway slaves. In 1699, more than 2,000 Scottish colonists perished from malaria and starvation, and in 1854 nine explorers died from disease and exposure on a U.S. Navy survey expedition, scuttling plans for a grand canal project through the isthmus. In more recent times, efforts to build a road link have foundered because of fears that foot-and-mouth disease could spread and devastate the U.S. beef industry, and because of resistance from the Kuna and Embera-Wounaan Indians who inhabit the rainforest.

The absence of any controlling authority in this wilderness has given free rein to armed groups. A military branch of FARC known as the 57th Front calls the shots around much of Colombia鈥檚 Choc贸 Department鈥攁 dirt-poor sliver of land in northwestern Colombia that overlaps the Gap and is one of the wettest places on earth鈥攁nd often moves freely back and forth across the porous border with Panama, a vital transit area for arms shipments and the cocaine exports that fund its war chests.

In the early years of Colombia鈥檚 civil conflict, adventurers could still move through the Gap by foot, motorbike, or four-wheeler. The first vehicular crossing was achieved in 1960 by a Jeep and Land Rover expedition, at an average speed of 220 yards per hour over 136 days. George Meegan of England went even farther, getting shot at in the Gap during an unbroken trek across the Western Hemisphere that he started in 1977. In the eighties, a British adventure travel company offered multiweek treks through the Gap. But by the mid-nineties, the prevalence of armed groups led to a plague of kidnappings, disappearances, and murders that put an end to such trips.

In 2000, two Brits, Tom Hart Dyke and Paul Winder, were taken hostage by FARC guerrillas while searching for rare orchids. They were held for nine months and threatened with execution before being released unharmed. In 2003, Robert Young Pelton, author of , and two backpackers were held for more than a week by the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia (AUC), the formally demobilized right-wing militia that was once the largest paramilitary group in the country. In 2013, Jan Philip Braunisch, a Swedish traveler attempting to cross the Gap alone via the Cacarica River鈥攐ur planned route鈥攙anished in FARC territory. It later emerged that he was killed by a shot to the head.

Since the late aughts, U.S. authorities say, FARC has increasingly relied on the Dari茅n corridor to smuggle drugs north as traditional air and sea routes have been clipped. Fierce competition for massive drug profits has also fueled the rise of neo-paramilitary groups that terrorize the region with wanton killings and armed assaults. The most powerful is the Clan 脷suga, a.k.a. Los Urabe帽os, a vicious gang made up of ex-AUC members. Seizing control of lucrative routes along the Caribbean coast, Los Urabe帽os has used its links with Mexico鈥檚 Sinaloa cartel to expand its presence around the country and challenge FARC in parts of Choc贸.

When migrants began turning up near the border, both groups started using well-worn drug-smuggling routes to move human traffic for money. 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. Cubans, lured by the promise of political asylum upon hitting American soil, account for most of the migrant flow, preferring the lesser known path through Central America to the familiar perils of the Florida Straits. But they are rivaled by a rising tide of Haitians, Somalis, West Africans, and South Asians.

Though it鈥檚 impossible to know the precise numbers, Panama saw 25,000 illegal arrivals last year, more than three times the number that came through in 2014. (Of these, about 20,300 were Cubans.) By late May of this year, another 8,000 migrants had passed through the Gap.

The fact that so many people would undertake such a long-shot journey caught my eye and Carlos鈥檚 well before we knew each other. Back in 2006, he was reading a newspaper in Bogot谩 when he saw a story buried in the back pages: a boatload of Chinese migrants had been captured in the Gap. 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. On another, he was stunned to pass a boat full of Somalis and Bangladeshis on the Cacarica. Smugglers ultimately turned him back, but the incongruous scene lingered in his head.

An had the same effect on me. It described how growing numbers of U.S.-bound migrants are flying or taking cargo vessels to Brazil and Ecuador, countries with lax visa and asylum requirements, then heading overland to Colombia on backcountry buses. Those with the means and a passport hire boats to bypass the jungle and reach Panama by sea; the rest take their chances running the Gap. In Panama they鈥檙e detained for background checks. So long as their names don鈥檛 turn up on international terror watch lists鈥攚hich I was told has never happened鈥攖hey are released to keep heading north.

These migrants are a fraction of the more than 65 million people that the United Nations estimates are now in flight because of war, persecution, and terror, the largest such displacement in human history. There are refugees in peril all over the world: Syrians seeking safe haven in Turkey, West Africans traversing the Sahara en route to Europe. But the Dari茅n Gap is the global migration story in extremis. What could possibly possess someone to enter it?

By land or sea, the main jumping-off point for crossings into Panama is Turbo, a dodgy Colombian port town on the Gulf of Urab谩 that has a bad reputation for violence. Once a FARC stronghold, Turbo became a battleground in the late 1980s when paramilitaries took over. We had been scheduled to travel there in early April, but we had to delay when Los Urabe帽os, excluded from peace talks with the government, called for a 24-hour strike to show that it still runs this part of the country. All public transport and shops shut down; streets emptied. Three policemen and an army captain were shot dead, presumably after the gang announced a reward for killing authorities. A group of traffic cops were injured by a grenade.

A month later, on May 6, we checked in at our residencia on a balmy morning. 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. Horse-drawn flatbed trailers bearing grains and bananas鈥攖he region鈥檚 chief legal cash crop鈥攚hipped by in a flurry of hooves. Turbo, the northern terminus of the Pan-American Highway in South America, is home primarily to darker-skinned Afro-Colombians, descendants of slaves brought to work in agriculture and mining in the 1500s. I didn鈥檛 see any migrants among them.

Lying in a hammock, with two German shepherds nestled at his feet, the motel鈥檚 manager, Juan Montero, explained that Urabe帽o smugglers usually charge between $500 and $700 to shuttle a migrant from here to Panama, a five-hour trip in a leaky boat. Alternatively, some migrants opt for a harder, cheaper inland route that starts at the coastal town of Capurgan谩 or Sapzurro and goes through a series of hamlets that听dot Dari茅n National Park, which covers a large part of the central and west side of the Gap. Because there is no Colombian border facility nearby where captured migrants could be sent, Panamanian authorities have typically allowed them to pass.

One week before our arrival, however, the immigration office in Turbo began granting migrants exit papers to bring the traffic aboveground. Now they could openly buy boat tickets to Capurgan谩 and Sapzurro. From there it鈥檚 a short boat connection or hike to La Miel, in Panama. Those without documentation might still hire coyotes to take them up the longer jungle route, which is also a major Urabe帽o drug-trafficking path. The gang is known to forcibly conscript migrants as mules鈥攁nd sometimes dispose of them.

At a moss-cloaked graveyard on the edge of Turbo, several tombs were scrawled with 鈥淣.N.鈥� (no name), in drab contrast to the colorful encomiums locals left for loved ones. Montero told me that most of the dead were Somalis who had been robbed and tossed overboard by ruthless coyotes. On a 2014 trip to Acand铆, an Urabe帽o-dominated town across the gulf from Turbo, Carlos had photographed the tomb of Roberto Tremble, a 33-year-old Cuban murdered by smugglers.

Cubans still accounted for most of the migrants, Montero said. 鈥淢any doctors,鈥� he noted. Until recently, they flew to Ecuador, one of the few countries that have no visa requirement for tourist stays. But Ecuador had changed its policy, and Cubans were now coming in waves from Guyana, which was their last legal beachhead in South America.

In a video shot on Montero鈥檚 smartphone, Miguel, a ropy old Habanero, touted Cuba鈥檚 free health care and education but grumbled that his salary was not enough to buy shoes. 鈥淲e are a country bounded by water and we don鈥檛 have enough fish for the people,鈥� he fumed. 鈥淧opulist socialism is terrible.鈥�

Another Montero video showed a group of Nepalis hunched over paper plates in the same room we were now in. Authorities had caught them and brought them to Montero鈥檚 for a meal before deportation. 鈥淥f course, I never called customs on any of the ones who stayed here, because I don鈥檛 agree that those looking for a better life should be sent back,鈥� Montero said. 鈥淭heir motivation is incredible.鈥�

Montero鈥檚 place was currently empty of migrants, so he directed us to the Hotel Goodnight, a flophouse located several blocks away, past bars and pool halls full of guys who threw us bloodshot stares. In the second-floor lobby, I found two Haitian teenagers thumbing WhatsApp on their phones. I introduced myself. One immediately exited down the hallway; the other refused to look up.

A third man was smoking on the balcony. He told me his name was Jackson Wilner and that he was a mason from Cap Haitien looking for work in Turbo. When I pressed him on how he planned to get to Panama, he stuck to his script. On my way out, I noticed that the door to his room was ajar. Looking in, I saw four people lying on a single bed. Three more were asleep on the floor.

Before dawn the next morning, we headed down to the docks. A boat was leaving for Capurgan谩, and Montero was sure it would draw migrants into the open. He was right. In the dim light, I could see men milling around. They turned out to be Haitians, Nepalis, and Pakistanis.

Zia ul-Haq, who I talked to on the dock, was the lone Afghan in the group. Twenty-six and slender, with thick brows hanging over forlorn eyes, he told me in halting English that he learned the language by watching bootleg DVDs: the Fast and Furious series was a favorite. He hailed from Nuristan, a remote, beautiful, and violent pocket of mountain ridges plied by fierce tribesmen. Zia鈥檚 uncle worked as a translator for U.S. forces, and the family moved to Kabul when Taliban death threats intensified. His uncle was eventually relocated to the United States. Zia applied twice for a visa to follow him, without luck. 鈥淒ay by day it was getting worse, so I took this journey,鈥� he said. 鈥淚f someone鈥檚 life is in danger, they will do everything for themselves.鈥�

Dubai. S茫o Paulo and the Brazilian Amazon. Peru. Ecuador. Colombia. For the past two weeks, Zia had been dodging police shakedowns, riding back roads in chicken trucks, slipping across borders after dark. From here he would head by boat to Capurgan谩 and then Panama or walk through the jungle; he鈥檇 heard the hike was anywhere from two to four days. He confessed to having no idea how to navigate the minefield of gangs, authorities, and six borders that would still lie between him and the U.S.

His provisions: cookies, energy drinks, and $90 in cash. He鈥檇 spent more than $1,500, paying for one leg of the trip at a time, to get this far. For protection he carried a booklet of Koranic verse in his front pocket. Zia鈥檚 goal was to join his uncle in Las Vegas and one day enroll in medical school. 鈥淭he U.S. is a safe country,鈥� he said. 鈥淭hey love peace, so we are trying to get there.鈥�

I reminded him that anti-immigrant sentiments were rising in the U.S. Was he worried he might not be welcome?

鈥淚t鈥檚 a long way still,鈥� he said after thinking it over. 鈥淢aybe the Americans have their limits. But there is no way of knowing.鈥� He paused. 鈥淚 just want a good life. No more feeling scared.鈥�

By 9 A.M., with the equatorial sun arcing overhead, there was a hum of fellow travelers and commerce. I spotted Jackson, the Haitian from the hotel, clutching a black trash bag that contained all his belongings. He was with the two teenagers, and they all avoided making eye contact with me. Hawkers were peddling ponchos and Chinese-made headlamps for $5 a pop beneath a sign from the municipal tourism board that read: Buen Viaje! Have a good trip!

A large motorboat arrived; names were called and life vests distributed. I gave Zia my card and shook his hand. 鈥淕et in touch when you make it to Vegas,鈥� I said. Squeezed in among the migrants were backpackers from England, Australia, Japan, and Brazil, who would soon be drinking coconut cocktails on the same beaches that some of these refugees would tramp across.

From the edge of the dock, I watched the boat rumble into the channel. Some of the travelers were snapping selfies. The Nepalis waved. Zia did not look up. He was holding his Islamic traveler鈥檚 booklet in his palms, head bowed, asking for protection.

The next day we met 鈥淎ngela,鈥� an emissary sent by the FARC bosses in Havana. She was in her mid-twenties and had heralded her arrival by texting suggestive pictures of herself. 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 Choc贸鈥攈er father, Elber. We were assured the route was OK, though we would have to pass army checkpoints and Urabe帽o strongholds along the way.

Choppy seas on the open gulf sent our panga skipping and diving through sheets of salt spray. At the first of two military stops, Colombian soldiers questioned locals headed to inland villages and outbound Cubans with exit papers. We turned southwest and the water narrowed into the Atrato, whose vast wetlands comprise half of Los Kat铆os National Park, a Unesco World Heritage site. Birds-of-paradise tumbled down its banks and birds of prey soared above us. In the near distance, rain clouds bearded the jungle-clad hills that marked the frontier. While efforts by authorities to combat illegal logging and overfishing have removed the park from the UN鈥檚 list of endangered natural places, visitors are scarce. Choc贸 is Colombia鈥檚 poorest department, with a high-stakes drug trade that has FARC and the paras clashing over key routes that run off the river highway.

At the aptly named Riosucio (鈥渄irty river鈥�), we switched to a smaller canoe manned by tough-looking guys with facial tattoos. It was another hour to our destination, Domingodo, a dead-end village where we would spend the next three days making arrangements for our foray into the heart of the Dari茅n Gap. A mestizo woman was hacking open tortoises for stew; pigs rooted around for scraps in muddy alleyways. From end to end, shack-rattling salsa thumps blasted from bar speakers that never went silent, day or night.

Our host, 50-year-old Elber, wore athletic shorts and carried no weapons, but he was FARC to the core. Burly yet soft-spoken, Elber has served as a political operative for three decades in the dispossessed, largely black communities of the Choc贸. Early one morning, he invited us to a 鈥減olitical鈥� meeting at a derelict sawmill in the midst of banana palms and sugarcane fields. Industrial saws were rusting away, half-covered, on a rotted platform. The sawmill was opened in the early 2000s, with government funding, as an alternative to coca trafficking, but support ran dry. No one knew how to operate the machinery, a failure of top-down planning that Elber said was emblematic of government neglect in the Choc贸. He presented a case to those assembled for reviving the mill, but swarming mosquitoes made listening too difficult.

Later that afternoon, Elber announced that the commander of the 57th Front, Pablo Atrato, was ready to receive us at his hideout, another half-day up the river. With FARC slated to begin disarming in the coming months, this was a timely opportunity to discuss the tricky business of peace. In the 1990s, a nascent hard-left political party called the Patriotic Union was ravaged by paramilitary death squads allied with government security forces. More than 4,000 members and supporters were killed, including two presidential candidates. FARC鈥檚 command has repeatedly delayed the process to avoid the same fate.

Meanwhile, we had a new concern: on May 9, Panama abruptly closed its border with Colombia to stem the flow of migrants. We were hearing that people in transit to the U.S. were being turned back in droves听along the Caribbean听coast. The odds were that they would have to push deeper into the Gap and then turn north, making them difficult to find. We climbed into our canoe and set course for Bijao, a traditional junction for migrants on the Cacarica River.

A late start forced us to overnight in Puente America, where a bartender told us that no migrants had come through in weeks. But in a vacant schoolhouse by the water, we found a gallery of graffiti. Rahim from Pakistan had been here, along with Ahmed from Ethiopia and Yahya from Kenya. The walls were scrawled with national pride and nostalgia for home. 鈥淕hana 50 Cent and his group moving to USA.鈥� 鈥淕od help us, we are on the way to USA.鈥� 鈥淕od bless Sierra Leone.鈥� 鈥淓njoy the journey.鈥�

Turning up the Cacarica later that morning, the Atrato鈥檚 big sky was replaced by dense canopy that spotlighted a fetid marshland of gnarled roots and cativo trees. Rafts of rosewood timber attested to the illegal logging operations common to the rebel-held area. The water was just a foot deep in places, forcing us to get out and push. Farther along, a stash of fresh Aguila beer crates sat on a bank, unguarded. We glided past a sign for Los Kat铆os fronting an abandoned visitor鈥檚 bungalow. Everyone was on edge.

A Perilous Crossing

In September, the Australian newsmagazine 鈥溾�� will air an hour-long segment on Jason Motlagh鈥檚 expedition through the听Dari茅n听Gap, using footage shot by Motlagh and videographer Roger Arnold. Here鈥檚 a preview.

鈥淚鈥檓 not getting out of the fucking boat until I鈥檓 invited,鈥� Carlos intones as we glide into Bijao village, under the gaze of naked children. We all hang back as Elber strides up the bank and greets a handsome, middle-aged black man in a tank top. We鈥檙e waved over and introduced to John Jairo, the platoon leader of the FARC guerrillas patrolling this area. With Elber vouching for us, it doesn鈥檛 matter that they were unaware of our planned visit. Word from Havana about us had not trickled all the way down the command chain.

The guerrillas are overnighting in Bijao, which is unusual. They wear plain clothes, their assault rifles stashed inside the crooked wooden homes that line the village, but it鈥檚 not hard to single them out. Close-cropped haircuts for the men; high, tight hair buns for the women. They all steer clear of us.

After we鈥檙e taken to our lodging, a blue and white structure built by the UN鈥檚 refugee agency, with a No Armas sign posted at the entrance, Elices Ramirez, the smooth-talking village representative, tells me that the guerrillas are accepted by locals, who harbor a deep mistrust for a central government in Bogot谩 that exists for them only in name. 鈥淭hey have done nothing for us,鈥� he says. The local school sits shuttered, and with the nearest medical clinic in Turbo, a day鈥檚 journey by boat, people die of treatable illnesses like malaria and nonlethal injuries. Contraband smuggling鈥攄rugs, goods, chilingos鈥攊s rife in the area, he admits, but 鈥渨e do our best to maintain order.鈥�

Wandering around the warrens of raised shacks and dry-goods stalls that afternoon, I spot Elber standing at the center of a public gathering, calling for 鈥渏ustice without prejudice.鈥� Apparently, two men had gotten into a drunken fight, and one of them nearly took off the other鈥檚 arm with a blade. An impromptu tribunal has convened to decide the man鈥檚 fate, and most of Bijao is in attendance. The accused is ultimately expelled from town by majority vote, with a warning to never return.

After dinner we鈥檙e invited to sit down with Elber and the FARC officers. I pass out cigarettes and Carlos starts to chat them up, name-dropping the commanders he knows and explaining our goal of tracking migrants. Jairo and his light-skinned deputy, Haiber, listen, motionless. I can鈥檛 read their expressions in the darkness, but their intensity is palpable.

鈥淚 have a question for you,鈥� Haiber finally interjects, pausing for effect. 鈥淲hat is the meaning of chilingos?鈥�

Laughter. No one has a clue where this slang term for migrants came from. I seize the opening to ask how long they have been guerrillas and why. Jairo, 39, says he joined at age 11, after feeling powerless watching his father labor in the fields for years with nothing to show for it but an early death. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 have a school in the community, and we couldn鈥檛 afford a pen and paper anyway,鈥� he tells me. 鈥淚 felt compelled to rise up against the corrupt state. They don鈥檛 respect you unless you fight them.鈥�

Jairo carries a sweat towel around his neck stitched with Comando de Muerte (鈥渄eath commando鈥�) under a skull and dagger. It belonged to a government soldier, he says, adding, 鈥淚t was not a gift.鈥�

By the end of our talk, Jairo says we鈥檙e free to travel through the Gap with FARC support. No escort or formal letter of approval will be given to us. It is simply understood that we are vouched for by the guerrillas, so we are not to be fucked with. In any case, by morning the fighters would leave Bijao to 鈥済o to work.鈥� The Urabe帽os were starting gun battles on another stretch of river in their latest bid to chisel their way into FARC territory.

In late February 1997, fighters with the 脡lmer C谩rdenas bloc, a hardcore right-wing unit, launched bombs into Bijao as part of a government-led operation that sent thousands running into the bush. Marino L贸pez Mena, a local man, was captured and decapitated, his head used as a ball in a soccer game. Another boy who was captured was tied to a tree and made to watch the gruesome spectacle; he still lives in Bijao, left incoherent by mental problems.

It鈥檚 a swelteringly hot morning, and Elices walks me to the homemade memorial by the river. He fled along with his neighbors, children in tow, traveling four days across the Gap to Panama, joining the 20,000 people that he estimates were displaced from other villages swept up in the violence. Most, he says, have returned to resettle acreage that is theirs under Law 70, a 1993 ruling that granted black Colombians collective ownership of ancestral lands. But they are still wary of the threat posed by the paras and a state with a record of abetting violence.

Has Bijao鈥檚 history of war and displacement made locals more sympathetic to the migrants coming through? 鈥淎bsolutely鈥攚e understand their situation, for we went through the same experience,鈥� Elices says. 鈥淲e do this as brothers, for we believe everyone has the right to live. We offer our support not because we want to make any money. It is a humanitarian action, our way to help them survive, the same way we were helped.鈥�

When the Bengalis and Nepalis we found on the river finally do pull into Bijao to join us, a band of young hustlers is waiting on the bank, ready for business. Ten bucks for a night in the barracks where we鈥檙e staying, mosquito net included. Plus another $5 for a plate of eggs, beans, and rice. The migrants claim that they have no money but soon give in. They are adding their own names to the graffiti-covered walls, buoyed by proof that so many countrymen have been here before them, when word comes in that there鈥檚 a mango tree nearby loaded with ripe fruit. The room empties; outside, rocks and sticks start to fly. Jafar picks up two mangos, triumphant. Arafat seems to have lost the limp that was ailing him on the river. 鈥淪ame like Bangladesh,鈥� he beams, juice dripping down his chin.

Arafat says his journey began when friends back home introduced him to a broker, who he paid more than $10,000. A Brazil visa and a flight to S茫o Paulo were arranged, with a stopover in Doha, Qatar. From there he made arrangements to travel through Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia, where he and a group he was traveling with got mugged by police.

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. When I return to the barracks after dark, five Cameroonians in alpaca-wool hats and two Togolese men are sprawled on the hardwood floor. A pair of Gambians, Ebrima Jobe and Morro Kanteh, are recovering on the porch.

鈥淔ucking hell,鈥� says Ebrima, the taller one, when I ask about the trip. He means the past 24 hours, when he had to cross the river at night and trudge on foot through the swamp. But his entire three-week journey has been a breathless flight from death.

For more than two decades, Gambia, a narrow country on the West African coast, has been ruled by a dictator who silences all dissent with brute force. In mid-April, a police crackdown on protesters demanding electoral reforms saw three men die in custody, including a leader of the main opposition party. This man was Ebrima鈥檚 mentor, and Ebrima, 38, heard that his name was on the hit list. With help from friends, he left his pregnant wife and two children for Dakar, then caught a flight to Madrid and from there flew to visa-free Ecuador, where he planned to apply for political asylum. On the go, he kept in touch with his family by e-mail. They were safely holed up with relatives, but he could never rest easy.

Bureaucratic snafus moved him to try for asylum again in Bogot谩, to no avail. So he turned his sights to the U.S. and bused to Turbo. 鈥淣ow I just want to get out of here,鈥� he tells me. 鈥淐olombia is no good.鈥� I ask if he鈥檚 heard of the Dari茅n Gap and he shakes his head. I describe it and he becomes somber for a moment, aware that the worst is still to come. 鈥淲e will cross together,鈥� I say, and Ebrima joins his fellows on the floor.

Our dawn departure is delayed by a dispute. The Africans roundly insist that they paid the coyotes in Turbo a flat fee to take them all the way to the Panama border; the Bijao hustlers counter that they are owed more. The migrants have no leverage out here, and the impasse ends when each migrant ponies up an extra $20. We aren鈥檛 spared, either. John and Alberto, the two porters we hired to help with our gear, are now demanding three times the agreed-upon sum鈥攔oughly $300 each.

鈥淭hese people are capitalists, they make money from our misery,鈥� Morro says later that day, as we head upriver in a sagging canoe. 鈥淚鈥檓 sick of this place.鈥� Like Ebrima, his role as a youth leader in the Gambian opposition compelled him to flee. He scans the jungle for a while, then catches me听off guard.

鈥淲hy are you here?鈥� he asks.

I give him a boilerplate answer, but in the moment it feels hollow, even frivolous. For all my good intentions, I鈥檓 still a Western journalist getting paid to do this. What I don鈥檛 say is that my privilege was secured by the audacity of an Iran-born father who made his own long-shot gamble to reach the United States.

Back when I was a 25-year-old freelancer striking out for Africa, my father, Homayoun, drove me from Washington, D.C., to New York City to see me off at JFK. I鈥檇 always assumed he鈥檇 emigrated the way normal people do, but in the departure lounge he told me that he had been unable to secure a visa in London, where he was studying in 1973, despite having family members stateside, at a time when trouble was brewing back home in Iran. So he booked a flight to Toronto, with a brief stopover in New York. As the plane neared JFK, he feigned violent illness; flight attendants hauled him off the jet. As he was being transported to a nearby clinic, he jumped out of the vehicle and into a car听his brothers had sent to pick him up. Five hours later, he was eating kabobs in Washington, D.C. He carved out a living selling used cars, and he still works long hours on cold back lots. His gamble bought me a youth free of the Islamic Revolution and mandatory army service. I attended good public schools, played baseball, and graduated from college debt-free. Now I could buy a one-way ticket to the Third World with a sure return. It was the start of a wide-ranging journey that ultimately led me to this remote river, into the void.

We disembark two hours later at the Wounaan village of Juimphuboor. I鈥檝e never found it on any map. Women pound laundry by the water, flanked by clutches of round, thatch-roofed huts that slope up the mountainside to slash-and-burn plots. Carlos tells us to keep our cameras off and our mouths shut: those same heights were likely the last place that the Swedish traveler Braunisch saw during his fatal 2013 attempt to cross the Gap.

In 2015, nearly two years after the 26-year-old went missing, the International Committee of the Red Cross delivered his skeletal remains to state investigators. 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. His bad luck was compounded by bad timing: rebels and government forces were battling it out around听the lower Atrato River, and a cease-fire with Los Urabe帽os had collapsed.

Three years on, peace talks between FARC and the government present us with an opening, but drug profits have a way of breeding spoilers in the Gap, and we are unusually fat targets. In addition to our expensive camera gear, battery packs, laptops, medical kit, and communications equipment, including a sat phone and GPS, we also have lots of cash. This is a pay-as-you-go venture, and the only way out is through.

One by one, our party鈥�20 migrants, four porter-guides鈥攕himmy under a barbed-wire fence and into the hissing maw of jungle toward our first objective: Palo de Letras, an unmanned crossing at the crest of a mountain, which will take at least ten hours of trekking to reach. The beaten path is lined with Red Bull cans, salt packets, and the first pieces of clothing discarded in the heat. I notice a long skein of leaf-cutter ants running fragments, parallel to our foot traffic. Their solidarity casts a sharp contrast to ours, which is starting to unravel.

It鈥檚 not yet noon when we stop to rest. Momir, the overweight Bangladeshi, is on the ground pleading with our guides to carry his bag for $10. 鈥淧lease take,鈥� he groans, doubling his offer to $20. But there are no volunteers, only indifferent looks. 鈥淭hrow your things away,鈥� one of the Nepalis says with a barbed edge. Reluctantly, Momir pulls out some tissues, then a T-shirt, then some socks and mittens. Morro grabs them and puts them on.

I have an urge to strip. My clothes are soaked through, my fancy knee-high, French-made boots freighted with water. The air is almost thick enough to chew. For a boost, I stuff a plug of dried coca leaves into my cheek with a chunk of quicklime. The concoction tastes vaguely of yerba mate and provides a jolt of energy and focus that will help me navigate the endless hills and switchbacks, mud-slick ravines, and root systems that obstruct our path. I can鈥檛 help but think of Steve McQueen in , a favorite of mine. When he is chased after escaping from a penal colony in French Guiana and starts falling behind, a timely wad of coca proffered by his native escort gives him the second wind he needs.

Cevedao, our Wounaan lead guide and porter, sets the pace of a mountain goat. We hired him and another man in Juimphuboor to help with our gear and see us through to the Paya River in Panama, since indigenous people can pass freely on both sides of the border. (Our porters from Bijao, John and Alberto, are taking a well-paid gamble crossing the border anywhere near migrants, because this carries a minimum five-year prison sentence.) Morro is close on his heels, followed by the Nepalis, who stick together and move at a steady clip. The Bengalis and Africans bring up the rear.

It鈥檚 not long before Evelyn Chantal, the only woman in our party, is flat on her back gasping for air. 鈥淭his is too much. But what can I do with a war going on in Cameroon and Boko Haram killing all of our brothers?鈥� she tells me once her breath calms. A hairdresser from a restive corner of northwest Cameroon, Evelyn left home as radical militants, expelled from Nigeria, threatened to overrun her village. With gold hoop earrings, lime spandex, and a backward courier cap, her flair has endured. But she is top-heavy, saddled with huge breasts, and wearing flimsy shoes, which she tosses aside.

鈥淚鈥檝e never moved in this type of forest, even in Africa,鈥� she says. 鈥淚鈥檓 very, very scared, but I have no choice. I have to struggle because I want to save my life.鈥�

Near dusk we learn that our native porter has vanished with Ebrima鈥檚 backpack, which contains his only change of clothes, money, and ID. After some tense discussion, Cevedao, with my encouragement, agrees to go back and find the bag. Only听after he leaves does it dawn on me that in addition to our 30-pound backpacks, one of us would have to carry the 50-pound duffel stuffed with video gear and supplies. Because I鈥檓 the only man in my group without camera duties, this falls on me.

The trail by now is littered with more precious items: jeans, blazers, backpacks. I see a random discarded letter with runny scribbles and stuff it in my pocket. With each step, the muck is pulling harder on my boots. A gathering night riot of mosquitoes get their fill of blood, and the infernal heat sucks us dry. The jungle trail, I realize, is one big alimentary canal that breaks down everything that passes through. Thickets of thorns slice my arms; a series of fallen trees forces me to crawl on all fours. This is what you get for sticking your neck out, I think to myself. Head down, chin dug into the pack on my stomach, I stumble on.

鈥淒id you see the skull?鈥�

I鈥檓 lying in a shallow creek trying to cool my body temperature when Roger, our videographer, drops the news: in my stupor, I鈥檇 somehow walked right past a human head on a stake. Carlos missed it, too. We walk a quarter-mile back up the trail and it鈥檚 facing us鈥攁nd Panama鈥攑resumably as a warning to anyone who would dare enter FARC territory. The surface is rain-polished to a shine, the jawbone missing.

鈥淚 swear I鈥檝e seen this in a dream, man,鈥� Carlos says, creeping closer, wide-eyed. 鈥淭his is crazy.鈥� We snap pictures and catch up with the group, driven by energy that no coca or caffeine had previously mustered.

Three hours later, we stop to make camp. The Bangladeshis swarm around me for insect repellent. The Nepalis bathe in their underwear and complain that the Bangladeshis complain too much and don鈥檛 share. 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. Fruit bats bank and dive around them. By morning one man is hiding up in a tree.

The hangover of a rough night is tempered by the border crossing. At 10 A.M. we reach the stone obelisk that marks Palo de Letras, on the boundary with Panama. Those with working cell phones take pictures to remember the moment. Ebrima and Morro sit down to collect themselves, grateful to be out of Colombia at last.

鈥淢y faith keeps me moving, that鈥檚 it,鈥� says Ebrima. 鈥淭here is no turning back for me. I can鈥檛 go back to where I鈥檓 from.鈥�

Meanwhile our shifty guides John and Alberto are anxious to head back home to Bijao. Although we had a deal to travel together to the Paya River, another half-day鈥檚 walk, they would face jail time if caught in the company of migrants by Senafront, the Panamanian forces that stalk the borderlands. They鈥檙e demanding to be paid in full, and more, to go all the way.

My temper flares. I never really trusted these men; paying them out would give up the last shred of leverage we have. But Carlos explains that we still need them to find our way, and we can鈥檛 afford to piss them off since they are skilled with machetes. FARC鈥檚 protection extends only so far.

I settle down, and a compromise is reached: the migrants will go ahead of us, on their own, to maintain a safe distance in the event that we鈥檙e intercepted. In English, then in French, I explain our predicament to the group and assure them that the route is easy to follow. Panama has a reputation for its humane treatment of illegals emerging from the jungle, complete with room and board. Everyone seems relieved at the prospect of imminent salvation.

But forward momentum is running down. During the next stretch, I spot a poured-concrete marker for the Carretera del Darien, a through-highway that was never built. Carlos sees a wheel from a Chevrolet Corvair, casualty of a 1961 expedition. Despite an hour鈥檚 head start, we catch up to the group. We sit and wait again. Same result. Somewhere in the skies above the canopy, rotor thumps from a Senafront helicopter听are audible. Our panicked guides insist on moving ahead at double speed to drop the gear at the river, and I volunteer to go with them. We shoot up the trail, Cevedao in front, John right on my heels 鈥渇or motivation,鈥� until a merciful stop for water. I bend down to fill my canteen. They vanish.

I race to catch up but don鈥檛 see a trace. I call out their names. Nothing. At a fork in the path, I bear right and find an energy-drink can, but I鈥檓 starting to have doubts that I鈥檓 going the correct way. The Gap is veined with dozens of trails and detours to nowhere, and my GPS device lost its signal the day before. For all I know, I could be heading back to Colombia, a dreadful thought. I wonder, have the guides stolen our bags? Perhaps they are preparing an ambush. Did I go too far?

I arrive at a tepee-shaped structure that looks to be a marker and shout into the abyss for a while, with no reply. It鈥檚 then that I notice that the structure is a tripod-shaped root, not man-made. I can feel the veins pulsing in my forehead, the fury of being left behind cut by sudden alarm. I am retracing my steps to the junction I passed earlier, unsure of my judgment, when the rustle of leaves stops me in my tracks. One of the Togolese men appears down the trail in his brown winter coat. He mumbles something in French, and I can scarcely contain my relief.

When we finally catch up to the guides, I want to explode. But Cevedao is holding a finger to his mouth. Soldiers are on a hilltop听not far down the trail, he says, and the Paya River is no more than 40 minutes away, tops. The guides dump our bags, collect the last of our pesos, and rush away as the rest of the group stagger in. One by one, they crumple to the ground; some are asleep within seconds. Evelyn is the worst off, her swollen toes protruding from socks torn to shreds, lips quivering in sweat. I try to get everyone鈥檚 full names and e-mail addresses in case they鈥檙e detained, but few can manage the pen. Roused for a final push, we wait as the migrants pick up what鈥檚 left of their things and vanish over the ridge.

Four hours later, Carlos, Roger, and I are still walking. The trail is relatively easy to follow, but the terrain is steeper. The heat and humidity are dehydrating our bodies, and our water supply is dwindling, with no fresh sources since the guides departed. Carlos struggles to keep up. 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. We have no idea where we are.

I go forward alone, clumsy and parched. Another hour or two passes, and the foliage around me becomes more lushly tropical. I鈥檓 barreling downhill through a tight chute of banana leaves that spit me out into a clearing where Senafront soldiers with M4 rifles are barking orders. Drop your bags and put your hands up! For the first time in my life, I鈥檓 relieved to face the barrel of a gun.

Our migrant friends are seated in rows on the ground, under armed guard, waiting. As I鈥檓 escorted into the soldiers鈥� camp with orders to not talk to them, a plaintive voice calls out. 鈥淒on鈥檛 forget about us, brother.鈥� It鈥檚 Ebrima. I turn back to catch his eye, and a soldier motions me away.

That was the last we ever saw of them. When Carlos and Roger eventually hobble into camp, a burly Panamanian officer informs us that President Juan Carlos Varela鈥檚 executive order is in force: no more migrants are being accepted. When I ask if this means the group will be sent back, he nods hesitantly. Retracing the route we just completed seems impossible at that moment. I cannot think straight, but emotions are welling up. We are fed pasta and coffee and escorted across the Paya to its namesake hamlet.

Sleepy and serene, Paya is a small Kuna Indian village with manicured grass and stilt homes, the last outpost inside 笔补苍补尘补鈥檚 Dari茅n National Park. In January 2003, it was the scene of a massacre: paramilitaries disguised as guerrillas executed four local men as punishment for cooperating with FARC. The paras went on to steal livestock, slaughter dogs, and land-mine the hamlet鈥檚 periphery to prevent people from leaving. At the time, no Panamanian security forces were in the vicinity.

Today, Paya counts on the protection of Senafront. Though technically a police force鈥敱什共圆钩静光�檚 army was dissolved after the 1989 U.S. invasion鈥攖he unit has a broad mandate to safeguard the country鈥檚 southern border and carries out special-forces-style operations against drug smugglers and Colombian armed groups. In 2013, 笔补苍补尘补鈥檚 government announced that FARC was no longer a threat in the country, removing restrictions against travelers with passports to the Gap, though coming this far inside was not recommended. A billboard at the Senafront base entrance features pictures of wanted FARC commanders and paras.

Major Hector de Sedas, the local Senafront authority, greets us under a tree that鈥檚 dropping mangos. A yellow placard is posted behind de Sedas that tallies the number of migrant arrivals between February 24 and March 24: 114, spread across 21 nationalities. When he deployed here six months ago, as many were recorded crossing daily, but on the day of our passage only six people were detained along the entire frontier. De Sedas says his men had been expecting us for a week鈥攚e鈥檇 informed them what we were doing ahead of time鈥攁nd feared that we may have lost our way, like the four Somalis who strayed from their group on reaching Panama and wandered the jungle for 15 days, only to end up back in Colombia.

We鈥檙e crushed when he confirms that the migrants we traveled with were being sent back. 鈥淭hey will be given some food and water and escorted 30 minutes back up the trail,鈥� he says. 鈥淭here is nothing we can do鈥攊t鈥檚 an order.鈥� I tell him this could be a death sentence for some. He winces in sympathy.

鈥淲e have an extraordinary humanitarian character. But Costa Rica and Nicaragua both sealed their borders, and this became a serious problem for us,鈥� he explains. With more than 4,000 Cubans and other migrants blocked from advancing north, he says, social pressures were mounting that forced the government to airlift scores of them to Mexico. Intelligence sources estimate that 5,000 more migrants are backed up between Ecuador and Colombia, he adds. 鈥淪ome people say President Varela should have made this decision [to close the border] six months ago.鈥�

Local tolerance was ebbing. When I ask Paya鈥檚 aging village chief, Enrique Martinez, how the community has fared since the paramilitary violence, he says that aside from some land-rights disputes with the state, the situation is peaceful. 鈥淣ow there is a problem with migrants coming from Africa, Bangladesh鈥攚e don鈥檛 have the capacity to feed all of them anymore,鈥� he huffs, a necklace of jaguar teeth jangling on his chest. 鈥淭hey arrive sick, and who knows what diseases they鈥檙e carrying, like Ebola. When the migrants get here and leave the next day, that鈥檚 one thing. But when they stay for 15 days or more it becomes a problem. I want the border closed once and for all, you hear me?鈥�

A hard rain comes down and we retire to our bungalow, where I notice that some of the boards are etched with migrant messages in Bengali and Arabic. As the downpour intensifies, I鈥檓 kept awake by a gnawing, familiar pang from my years of reporting: the guilt of leaving people in duress behind, made more acute in this case by my naive assurances that their lot would improve in Panama. The 20 of them were out in the bush somewhere, beyond tired, hungry, exposed. The Nepalis might find a way, I thought. I was less sure about the Bengalis and some of the Africans.

When I open the letter I found on the trail, there鈥檚 a draft note addressed to Ecuador immigration from one Mohammad Shariful of Bangladesh, with a world map sketched at the bottom. On the听other side there鈥檚 a bank-account number and transfer amount, and, in English, the makings of a poem.

love is a river. love is an ocean. love听is the earth. love is radha (hindu god). love is giridhar (hindu god). not being able to sleep, that is what love is. if there was no love there would be nothing. i would not be here.

It鈥檚 dated April 6, 2016, a month before the border closure. If all went well, Mohammad could be in the U.S. by now.

The Dari茅n Gap in Panama is such dense jungle that the only sensible way through is by boat, and in the morning we climb into a piragua for a ten-hour glide upriver. I lie back and watch the teeming forests drift by. Pucuro, Boca de Cupe, El Real, and then Yaviza, a rowdy town of bars and brothels on the Chucunaque River, where the Pan-American Highway resumes and the grid comes alive.

It鈥檚 now May 19. Since departing from Turbo on May 8, we covered more than 200 miles by boat and on foot, crisscrossing rivers and swamps and humping through unmarked trails up a mountain to a forgotten border plateau. Along ankle-busting ridges, we dipped and climbed higher into the wilderness, only to descend once more to water,听the lifeblood of the Gap and anyone unfortunate enough to be mired there. I send e-mails to Zia, the Afghan from the Turbo docks, and Ebrima鈥攖he two legible contacts in my notebook. At least they don鈥檛 bounce back.

While we were in the jungle, Colombian authorities confiscated 8.8 tons of Urabe帽o cocaine in a raid on a banana-plantation stash house in Turbo, the 鈥渂iggest seizure of drugs in history,鈥� the president boasted. As we wait for breakfast at a cantina in the morning, another news report from Turbo flickers on the screen.

Since the Panamanian closure came into force, a bottleneck of several thousand migrants had overwhelmed the way station. Streets are thronged with stranded Cubans, Haitians, Africans, and South Asians. The tableau could easily be mistaken for New York City or Miami, the telltale difference found in the crunched facial expressions of thwarted desire.

Some ugly myths have taken root in the United States that these same people are predisposed to be criminals, a dormant threat to national security and gathering drag on our economy. In a country built by migrants, currents of nativism and xenophobia are on the rise, with bluster of walls going up and mass deportations. And somehow people of all stripes keep angling for our faraway borders with their dreams intact, risks and distances be damned.

Inevitably, through sheer force of will and a lot of good luck, some of the ones stranded in Turbo will make it to Panama and on to the United States. Maybe they鈥檒l 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 Dari茅n 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.

They are our past, present, and future. And they are worthy.

is a fellow with the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.听

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The Darien Gap is a lawless听wilderness on the听border of Panama and Columbia that serves as an alternative to traditional pathways for migrants seeking entry听颈苍to to the U.S..听It's full of drug听traffickers,听antigovernment Guerillas, and deadly snakes, and many of the hundreds of migrants who enter each year never emerge. In the August Issue of 国产吃瓜黑料, Jason Motlagh plunged in, risking robbery, kidnapping, and death to document one of the most harrowing treks on earth. This clip is a preview of an hour-long film that Australian newsmagazine 听will air on September 6听on Motlagh's expedition through the Gap, using footage shot by Motlagh and videographer Roger Arnold.

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“No man鈥檚 land” is a term that, to the modern ear, can sound like stepping onto a battlefield. In fact, the phrase refers back to the idea of unclaimed land (recorded as “听颈苍 the Domesday survey of England of 1086) and still carries an echo of perennial hopes for free land, for places beyond the control of others. Ordinary places become extraordinary in no man鈥檚 land.

Such in-between places remind us how dependent we are on borders鈥攖hat our sense of order and certainty draws deeply from the knowledge that we are in governed territory. No man鈥檚 lands may be vast stretches of unclaimed land or tiny scraps left over from the planning of cities, though the uncertainty of the no man鈥檚 land is especially keenly felt in places that the outside world refuses to recognize or that appear to be between borders.

The notion that places might slip down between borders led me on a geographical quest. I went looking for the farthest possible distance between the border posts of two contiguous nations, to see how far they could be stretched apart.

Most border posts face each other. A change of signage, a different flag, a line on the road, all combine to signal that no sooner have you stepped out of one country than you have arrived in another. But what happens if you keep on opening up that space?A few years ago, with the help of hours spent blinking at the tiny fonts favored on travelers鈥� Internet chat forums, I found what I was looking for. Along a road between in West Africa the distance between border posts is 27 kilometers.

It is not the world鈥檚 only attenuated border area. The Sani Pass, which runs up to the mountainous kingdom of Lesotho from South Africa, is the most famous. It鈥檚 a rough road, although much visited by tourists in 4x4s seeking out the highest pub in Africa, which sits near the top of the pass. The drama of the trip is heightened by the thrill that comes from learning that this is no man鈥檚 land. The South Africa border control, complete with “Welcome to South Africa” signs, is 5.6 kilometers away from the Lesotho border office.

Another specimen is to be found in the mountainous zone between border posts on the Torugart Pass that connects China and Kyrgyzstan. Central America also has a nice example in Paso Canoas, a town that can appear to be between Panama and Costa Rica. It is habitually described as no man鈥檚 land because, having left through one border post, you can go into the town without passing through immigration to enter the other country. Some visitors relish the impression that the town around them is beyond borders. Partly as a result, Paso Canoas has developed a darkly carnival atmosphere, as if it were some kind of escaped or twilight place.

What these gaps reflect back at us is our own desires, especially the wish to step outside, if only for a short time, the claustrophobic grid of nations. We probably already suspect that it鈥檚 an illusion. Shuffling forward in a queue and making it past the passport officer does not mean you are, at that exact moment, leaving or entering a country. Such points of control exist to verify that you are allowed to enter or leave. Their proximity to the borderline is a legal irrelevance.

Yet this legal interpretation fails to grasp either the symbolic importance of the border point or the pent-up urge to enter ungoverned territory.The fact that Paso Canoas is split by the Panama鈥� Costa Rica border rather than actually being between borders doesn鈥檛 stop people from describing it as an “escaped zone.”Similarly, the steep valley up the Sani Pass is nearly all in South Africa, and the road down from Senegal into Guinea is always in one nation or another, but that isn鈥檛 how travelers experience it or even what they want.

The attraction of these in-between spaces has a lot to do with the fact that they are on land. Going through passport control at an airport provides no comparable thrill, even though international airspace is far more like a genuine no man鈥檚 land than any number of dusty miles on the ground. It seems that escaping the nation-state isn鈥檛 all that is going on here. There is a primal attraction to entering somewhere real, a place that can be walked on, gotten lost in, even built on, and that appears to be utterly unclaimed.

Some of the overland tourist trips that occasionally rumble along the Senegal鈥揋uinea highway offer camping in the no man鈥檚 land as part of the package. Like other examples, it鈥檚 a zone that provokes people to muse on allegiance and belonging. In his essay , the American travel writer Matt Brown describes encounters with villagers along the Senegal鈥揋uinea road that provoke speculation on the nature of national identity:

I stopped my bike to chat with the woman pounding leaves. I asked in French (my Pular only goes so far), “Is this Guinea?” “Yes,” she answered. Surprised that she even understood French, I posed a follow-up question. “Is this Senegal?” I asked. “Yes,” came the reply.

A little later Brown sits on “a nationless rock”听and imagines these villagers as freed from the “archaic, nonsensical national borders drawn up by greedy European leaders at the Conference of Berlin over 100 years ago.” Stretching out border posts does seem to break the seal on the national unit. The resultant gap may not be of much legal import, but for travelers on the ground it creates a sense of openness and possibility.

Yet while travelers may relish this expansiveness, the consequences for those who have to live and work in such places can be less positive, such as heightened insecurity and a sense of abandonment. This is one of the reasons why African states have been trying to close the gap in such anomalous spaces. The , which supports economic infrastructure projects across the continent, has made “establishing juxtaposed checkpoints at the borders” of its member states a priority, including at the Guinea鈥揝enegal border.

What most concerns the fund鈥檚 members is the impact that these distant border posts have on the flow of trade. Along the Guinea鈥揝enegal route there are nightmare tales of vehicles being sent back and forth by officials who keep asking for new documentation or demanding new bribes. In-between land can easily turn into a place of bureaucratic limbo where both travelers and locals are uniquely vulnerable to tiresome and corrupt officialdom. Patches of ground “between” nations are places that can be thought of as free, but they are also places where we are reminded why people willingly give up freedoms for the order and security of being behind a border.听

Excerpt from Unruly Places: Lost Spaces, Secret Cities, and Other Inscrutable Geographies. Copyright 漏 2014 by Alastair Bonnett. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

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