So I went to do some spelunking last week in the caves of Lago Bayano down near the Darien Jungle. Yea, that's right: the place where all the drug-smuggling Columbians and their automatic weapon-wielding minions like to play dominoes and Candyland while they snack on Oreo cookies. My (now) dear friend, Ivan picked us up in his beat-up brown van—the kind of old rickety thing that appears to lazily heave along the pavement rather than actually roll. We headed west along the Pan-American highway until about thirty minutes outside the city, where all of a sudden, the landscape turns terrifically rustic and rural—sort of like a Latin-style Vermont: rolling hills, deep green foliage, army-looking man in camouflage holding an M-16...wait, what?

The bus pulled off the road as instructed, where orange cones, military-fatigued men, and stop signs directed. Turns out, being so close to the stigmatic Darien, we had stumbled upon a military checkpoint—set up to nab dangerous guerillas on their route to or from Nicaragua. Luckily, the only thing I had on me that resembled illegal contraband was a Matchbox 20 album, so I breezed through the search, but there's nothing that'll make you feel more criminal than an AK-47 pointed at your leg. Ivan talked to the guards and bought us some breathing space.

Ivan is a middle-aged adventure seeker, his weekends spent freefalling, skydiving, and as we were about to experience, exploring dark bat-infested caves. He even looks like an adrenaline junkie, machete hanging from one hip, and those tall soldier boots where the laces are wound all the way up one's shin. He has family in the states and while he's always looking for an excuse to practice his English, you must speak very slowly for him to understand. He often replies using words that are slightly inappropriate or incorrect, and his favorite answer to a question: “well, not precisely”. He says it in a high-pitched way that the ignorant and stereotypical American in me, can only describe as Speedy Gonzalez. He likes puppy dogs, long walks on the beach, and wearing his life jacket on land. Ivan's a doodle pop.

We eventually loaded up our gear: kneepads, flashlight-affixed helmet, and heavy duty gloves—what was I getting myself into? Before the trip I had envisioned exploring the caves from a nice, comfortable seat where I could sip on something like a juice box, similar in concept to a glass-bottom boat: all the glory of being there without the grime or wetness. But with each additional piece of equipment Ivan handed me, that vision faded further and further away. We boarded a boat piloted by a young ten year-old Kuna Indian, named something that sounded like “Milk”—didn't quite catch it the first time round. We skimmed the junior waves on Lago Bayano, passing giant birds in trees and neon-green lily pads.

Milk slid the boat up against a bank where the only signs of civilization were a few thatch-roofed huts, smoke billowing out their cracks, and four or five little kids running in circles kicking a limp and deflated balloon. I felt bad for the children, as I assumed they had never gotten a chance to sit in front of a TV for hours at a time, or even tried the newest version of Grand Theft Auto. They must have really been deprived, because when I mentioned Nickelodeon to them, they laughed and gleeked on my leg. To them, I probably looked like a space invader: this white-skinned punk decked out in red plastic, carrying a sheath of Ritz crackers. “I come from France” I would tell them. “Would you like a Ritz cracker?”

Ivan led us through their small village, chickens fluttering around like pizzas, dogs resting in the shade of old palm trees, and a man—who actually sort of resembled the gay guy from CHIPS—relaxing in a hammock. We walked down to this picturesque little stream alive with the squeaks and squeals of various wildlife. The beginning of the spelunking expedition was easy enough: wading about knee-high in this beautifully icy-cold water between two colossal walls of pete moss-laden rock walls. “Will we be getting wet?” I asked Ivan. “Well, not precisely” he said. Then, trying to push his English further than he probably should have, “Maybe something like triple or double wet.”

That phrase, while seriously flawed in grammar, was about as accurate as they come. Soon enough, we were up to our necks, with no sandy bottom to poke at for footing. About forty minutes into the adventure, in what I'm now calling the sacred moment, the roof of the cave opened up to this brilliant green overgrowth above—the darkness of the cavern and the clean sharp rays of incoming sunlight making for this dramatic movie-like guise. We had to scale a pretty large rock, at which point I doubted my ability to go any further, sort of the same way I do when I'm trying to swallow a pill after several failed attempts: “you can do this” I'll tell myself. “Come on now!”

There was a celebrity of sorts on the trip with me, the guy who made the movie The Sixth Sense, M. Night Shyamalan. He was down in Panama for vacation and was actually really nice, and did lots of small scary tricks like tapping me on the opposite shoulder and popping out from behind stalagmites. “Oh, M. Night” I'd say as I pretended to be scared. “You got me that time.”

I snapped a cool picture with him, just before I tripped him over a rock and threw him into the water. “And that's for The Village!” I screamed.

The caves at Lago Bayano are so mysterious and pure that you can't help but feel a little bit of fear. Bats are swooping down across your face and pooping on your head. Snakes can fall in from the jungle above and bite you in a frantic conniption fit as they're trying to escape. If the current's strong enough, it can pick your Burger King-eating-ass up and carry you down the rock-obstacled river, smashing you into sharp stalactites and hidden underwater bamboo dams. I felt a bit like Indiana Jones, poking at every false rock and uncovering every hiding spot that I could find, in search of some sort of treasure. About half way through, Ivan offered me a piece of dried meat and it tasted delicious. He said he made it from the oldest pig that he ever owned, and eating even the most simple of pork treats, in a cave of such extravagance, elevates it to a sacred snack: a small step for ham. A giant leap for ham kind.

I am of firm belief that if you master one unique skill as a foreigner in another country, you will make a large circle of friends, and for me, that skill is magic. I do some levitation and the occasional mind reading, but on this occasion, I amazed some of my new friends with a little thing I like to call sleight of hand; making gumball-sized river rocks vanish “into thin air”. Keep in mind that the shadowy confines of a cave make such tricks all the more convincing and believable; to such an extent, that at one point I was making giant boulders disappear. “Where'd it go?” they'd ask.

“It's cave magic” I'd say. Then shrug my shoulders as if not even I had an explanation for what just happened.

M. Night liked this.

The caves were fascinating, and I don't use that word very often because it sounds academic and corny. Ivan's got a new company he's calling Panama Outdoors which basically is an excuse for him perform these crazy stunts in front of a crowd. I'll probably never again see something so pure and wild and mysterious as the caves in Lago Bayano. While the gun-toting soldiers I could do without, the trip was one of the coolest things I've experienced in a long time. (Except for, of course, my recent discovery of Ali G). Is spelunking wild caves something that you get to do everyday? And is a friend like Ivan one that you meet very often?

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