Over the past five years, I’ve sailed from Norway to Panama, exploring different coastlines and documenting how people live with and through their environments.

Of all the places I’ve travelled, Guna Yala stands apart.

Located on the northern shores of Panama, it is an autonomous region made up of hundreds of small coral islands, where the Guna continue to maintain a strong degree of political and cultural independence.

Across the archipelago, life follows rhythms that are closely tied to the sea, the land, and community life.

Knowledge is shared through practice. Decisions are made collectively. Value is often grounded in relationships rather than accumulation.

It’s not a place you simply pass through.

It’s a place that invites attention.

Sustainable cultural travel

In the coming months, I’m inviting a small group (max 3 people) to join me on a 9-day sailing journey through the region.

This is not a typical sailing trip. It’s a slower, more intentional way of moving—where the focus shifts from covering distance to engaging with the places we arrive in, the people we meet, and the experience of being there.

We will sail between islands, spend time in Guna communities with local guides, snorkel along reef systems, and explore parts of the rainforest.

This journey draws on my work as a documentary photographer and anthropologist, and is designed for those who are interested in questions of travel, ethics, and how we relate to different ways of living.

It may resonate particularly with photographers, filmmakers, and others working creatively, but it’s open to anyone who feels drawn to this kind of experience.

What to expect

We move slowly and keep things simple.

We aim to travel in a way that is attentive to both environmental and social impact, working with local guides and contributing to local economies along the way.

We will:

• fish and eat with local families

• learn freediving and explore reef systems

• travel between islands under sail

• spend time in communities with local guidance

• create space for conversation, reflection, and experience

Life on the boat is simple. It’s warm, salty, and close. We share space, meals, and rhythm.

In return, you step into a way of travelling that is difficult to access through conventional routes.

How you can join

This is an intentional expedition for those looking for depth, perspective, and a different way of moving through the world.

If this speaks to you, fill out the sign-up form where you can let me know what month you are available, and I’ll share more details.

Sign-up form

I’m not looking to fill spots—I’m looking for the right people.

I’ll be confirming the first group over the coming weeks.

I’m back in Europe after a year of sailing, biking, and travelling for a brief pause before journeying on with Falkor and crew.

Back in Barcelona, with the Barcelona gays, my old tribe, my dysfunctional family, my very human community.

When I decided to leave the big-city life two years ago, I was in a ditch—emotionally and spiritually. I had taken the party lifestyle to its extreme. At least to the point where the pain outweighed the short-term relief of escape.

Being back has made me reflect on how far I’ve come, where I’m still growing, and if I could have gotten the same results without blowing up my old life and sailing into the sunset.

Comfort is the enemy of growth, and not all stress is bad

First conclusion: my nervous system, which has been on alert 24/7 during the last months of sailing, can finally relax. Sleeping through the night without checking if the anchor is holding. Catching the subway without worrying about engine failure. Hiding in a café while it rains instead of riding out a storm at the helm.

All of this more than compensates for the chaos of the city.

Truth is, not even the most influential advocates of the simple life in the outdoors—like Henry Thoreau or Fridtjof Nansen—permanently abandoned the urban. For all their insistence on the healing power of pristine nature, they always returned to the city’s social fabric and comforts.

And so, it seems, do I.

But when I do, I notice something: that pushing past my comfort zone out at sea has changed my baseline. Once the storm is over, mundane problems feel a little less serious and a little more… mundane.

The Stoic thesis that friction builds resilience seems to hold. Our biggest leaps of growth take place outside the comfort zone.

And maybe I’m stating the obvious here. But we need a reminder that when grown-ups with Peter Pan syndrome throw themselves into reckless adventures, it might not be such a stupid idea.

The mean little voice inside our heads

Through this journey, I’ve often fallen prey to the trap of comparison and negative self-talk: while my peers are raising kids, building careers, and paying down mortgages, I’m pouring my energy, life savings, and time into an activity that some might say is just another kind of escapism.

A hedonistic pursuit of some romanticised idea of adventure. The irresponsible, privileged, narcissistic indulgence of a middle-aged guy who wants life to be “fun”.

That’s the fearful voice that wants to keep me small, speaking, by the way. The voice instilled in us by a society obsessed with material pursuits. The one that tells us that accumulation equals success equals social standing equals safety.

Even if I’m well aware that I’m not the failure this voice wants me to believe that I am, I just haven’t been able to shut it up—especially not out at sea.

Long-distance cruising has felt like a marathon of negative self-talk.

But returning to Europe has shaken me out of excessive identifications with materialist metrics of success. Why? Well, for once, cause being back in an old environment shows me all the areas where I have grown: I’m calmer when finances are tight, I don’t indulge in escapism like I used to, I’m OK with leaving the party early, and I’m OK with leaving the party alone. I’m OK with not having a fancy job to prop up my confidence. And I’m OK with not knowing what the future will hold.

Finally, I’m starting to viscerally feel that success in life might be more related to spiritual growth—to the way we show up for ourselves and others.

Is this what detoxing feels like?

Navigating challenges together

My body is catching up with what my mind already knew, and an important reason is that I’m no longer comparing myself to the fantasy version of other people’s lives.

You see, being far out at sea and imagining life back home is not so different from lying on the couch and imagining life at sea—our projections of others are usually rosy idealisations while we reserve the demanding realities of the human experience to our own immediate, minuscule universe.

But here’s the truth: right now, we’re all in the pressure cooker.

The fantasy of limitless abundance and individual freedom has created expectations that are impossible to fulfill, especially when we try to live them out in a system geared towards profit, not purpose. We’re all chasing some fantasy life that simply does not exist. Or, in the very few cases where it does, lacks the emotional tone we’ve been told that it has.

Right now, the world is full of new home-owners weighed down by debt, newly weds discovering that they married the wrong partner, and successful entrepreneurs on the verge of burnout. The perfect life does not exists.

Realising we’re not alone in our struggles can bring instant relief.

The power of community

And that brings me to the second reason why returning to Barcelona has felt like the right medicine at the perfect moment—because of the way the city has welcomed me home.

I’ve been hosted, fed, and cared for by friends who feel like family.

I’ve shared tender moments, received cuddles, and had deep conversations with people I love.

Coming home has shown me that the power of community trumps the weight of broken expectations. When we’re with our friends, when we feel seen, held, and supported, it is the biggest balm for the soul.

And it can soothe even the most dysregulated nervous system—as long as we can look past what life hasn’t given us, and notice what’s already there.

Perhaps happiness is not about choosing between adventure and belonging. Perhaps it lives somewhere in the tension between the two.

In any case, thank you Barca, for being a home <3

When I set sail across the Atlantic Ocean, I imagined the Caribbean as a natural paradise full of postcard beaches where Falkor, my 34-foot sailboat, would sway under the sun.

Instead, I’ve encountered challenging weather, polluted coves, and enormous hotels on what was once pristine shores. That is, until I arrived in San Blas.

A secret paradise

As I was enjoying this morning on anchor, a dolphin swam right past my boat.

The guys on the boat next to ours saw it too, and in less than a minute, we were a small group of sea-hippies paddling towards the patch of water where the silvery smooth tail fin of the dolphin last appeared, on our paddle boards and in our dinghies.

We were too late. The dolphin was already halfway out at sea, so instead the guys boarded Falkor for a morning mate, and then we went spearfishing by the reef.

And finally, a year after buying my speargun in Spain, I caught my first prey: a parrot fish with bright colours and sharp teeth. Not a very impressive catch, but just enough to awaken my primal, caveman instincts.

Now I know that if I ever need to, I can survive in the wild—the wet dream of every man transiting his midlife crisis.

On this particular day, however, I surrendered to my old identity, and bought a freshly caught tuna from the Guna ladies who came to our boat on a cayuco, offering a much more impressive catch as well as their traditional mola tapestry—layered, handwoven textiles that are only produced here.

What if the cliche is true?

We sailors that cruise these waters might be a bunch of romantics, but where most of us modern folks practice the simple life on occasion, as a feel-good pasttime, the Guna native to the 360-something coral islands that compose the San Blas archipelago, fully embody the cliche of simple living in harmony with nature.

When I spoke with a friend in Barcelona in the afternoon, as I obsessed over our encounters with sailors and Guna alike, he interrupted me. “Let me guess—they live simple lives but are happy nonetheless?” He was being sarcastic.

“Well… yes,” I awkwardly replied. I knew it sounded like a cheesy cliche, but the weeks I’ve spent in this region have reminded me of the value of simplicity.

Of course there are problems here too, like everywhere else—cocaine smugglers roam this region, economic opportunites are scarce, and life in a small and remote community means adapting to the challenges of village life.

But also, the people we met seemed content. They had been to the city and lived here by choice, not obligation.

The original affluent society

For Marshall Sahlins, one of the great anthropological minds, hunter-gatherers were “the original affluent society”—financially poor, spiritually rich. Similar to the Epicureans, he argued that affluence is achieved by desiring little, not by having a lot.

When the Spanish conquistadors colonised Colombia, the ancestors of today’s Guna migrated to the Caribbean shores of Panama’s Darien region to evade colonisation. They settled on the islands, as these were practically free of the disease-carrying bugs of the nearby jungle.

Here, they have established a self-governed society where decisions are deliberated collectively through local congresses, open to all community members.

In 1925, the Guna revolution, one of the earliest and most successful Indigenous autonomy movements in Latin America, asserted regional independence from Panama.

To this day, people here live mainly from the resources offered by the land and the ocean—coconut, jams, plantain, lobster, fish, and game. Family homes are built with materials from the forests and with the help of neighbours. It is not a moneyless society, but it has largely remained sheltered from the tentacles of consumer capitalism, and my nervous system feels it.

I am more at peace here than I’ve been in a long time.

Apparently, the Guna feel it too.

In Rio Azúcar, a small island home to 300 people, we are welcomed by Shell, a lobster fisher and lead singer of the town’s carnival comparsa. After the carnival celebrations have ended, he guides us on a hike through the mainland rainforest.

“If I’m hungry, I just go into the jungle and pick a banana or some jams. The nature here provides everything I need.”

Shell is proud of his homeland and people. “The Guna take care of the trees,” he explains as he walks us through food crops and pristine forest. Many of the plants here have medicinal properties. The river provides the town with clean freshwater, and the caimans that live here have names: “In the hole under that mangrove over there lives Carlos.”

Although the simple Guna homes might register as ramshackle to the eye of a chalk-white westerner like me, programmed to worship the God of comfort and consumption, there’s no trace of precarity or hardship in the way Shell and his neighbours talk about their lives: “I love my land. This is a paradise. I thank the great creator for gifting me this place every day.”

The new ruins of Central America

Two weeks later, I am back on the mainland. In the small marina where I make my first stop, the romance ends.

Small and far away from almost everything you might want while on land, it has a crumbling concrete dock, a broken travel lifter, a run-down office, a small restaurant with a cracked floor, and a few abandoned holiday homes.

In what seems to be a testament to our times, the nearby beach is littered with heaps of plastic, like most remote beaches in the Caribbean. For sure, the fancy people who built this place must have had a different vision in mind.

As a paradise in ruins, destroyed by human attachment to endless, mindless, anxious consumption, I see it as a reminder of my own attachment to stuff. Stuff I think will make life easier and better, but ends up having the opposite effect.

The future is now

Sailing through the Caribbean has often felt like travelling through the ruins of a modern world that has been destroyed by greed and excess consumption, but this particular run-down marina strikes me as an unsettling image of what lies ahead if we don’t change course.

In many ways, we’re already there—in that dystopian future of Hollywood movies.

Just like those lonely roaming wanderers of the movie screens, I have, in the last few months, fixed my ship with scrap metal, spearfished among dying reefs, and learned how to live, perhaps even thrive, amidst the ruins.

And maybe this is the lesson of our time: that even as the world crumbles, there is still a glimmer of hope. Not hope that we will survive the apocalypse. Hope, instead, that its simplicity is what brings us back to life.

On his fourth journey to the Americas, Christopher Columbus spent weeks battling harsh conditions in the areas that lie between the Bay Islands of Honduras and the Cape on the Nicaraguan border.

Easterly trade winds, complex currents, and treacherous reefs make this an extremely challenging stretch for sailors wanting to get from Guatemala to the Caribbean (like us). When Columbus and his crew finally rounded the Cape, they gave it the fitting name Cabo Gracias a Dios—Cape Thank God.

We would probably have named it something similar, for in the weeks leading up to our passage through Nicaraguan waters, we have battled storms, engine problems, torn sails, exposed anchorages, as well as real and metaphorical pirates.

Or so we believe.

But first things first: since my new crew boarded Falkor in Guatemala’s Rio Dulce, it has been impossible to ignore certain world events that keep us on our toes. At one point, someone on board suggested that the motto for the next leg of Falkor’s journey should be “sailing for peace”—in a nod to the monks who are currently walking across the US.

But this reframe of our mission sparked dilemmas—cause what exactly would sailing for peace entail?

On one level, it seems so abstract that it loses meaning. Peace can be a lot of things, and from the comfort of a home, sailing might certainly seem like a peaceful activity, but from the anchorage where we are currently riding out a storm, it feels like anything but.

However. An important purpose of this journey has always been to emphasise the value and strength of human connection.

To show that, despite cultural differences, we live in a shared world, and that the things that bring us together can be stronger than those that set us apart.

And perhaps this was the lesson of our passage through Roatan, the largest one of Honduras’ Bay Islands, where serendipity had us arrive at Erica’s pirate’s den, Hole in the Wall, at the very moment that our anchor windlass and engine broke down.

We realized that our anchor was busted when Erica and her nephew waved us into the dock of the rickety floating pub, and we ended up staying for a full five days, while additional breakdowns kept us landlocked.

The vibe of Hole in the Wall was washed away sailor living the free life at sea, and Erica, originally a mainland Hondureña with an astute business sense and declared love for Donald Trump, ran the pub tight as a ship.

The experience was perplexing: as protestors clashed with the ICE in the streets of Minneapolis, we enjoyed a loving cultural encounter with a Honduran MAGA.

Erica must have been equally befuddled by the friendship that grew between her and our queer crew of gays, trans, and straight, even as our political opinions were openly declared. How refreshing and necessary it felt to see past our differences and go for a swim in the mangrove forests of Jonesville together.

A few days later, we were the ones with a penchant for violence, when we decided to arm ourselves to our teeth—with a machete, speargun, and Molotov cocktails in case the pirates that have reportedly robbed sailors along the Nicaraguan coast should pay us a visit.

We also brought bribes: a bottle of rum, US dollar bills, and some old and useless electronics. But it just didn’t seem enough.

“Fill a couple of glass bottles with gasoline, throw them at the pirate’s boat, and threaten to shoot an emergency flare at them, and you will see how quickly they’ll scatter,” an experienced sailor had advised before we left Honduras.

I didn’t want to get boarded by pirates in the middle of the ocean, and when an odd-looking ship started following our tracks, I waved my machete and had the crew prepare the Molotovs.

Turns out, it was just a shrimp fisher, or so we were later told.

Sailing for peace indeed.

On board Falkor, there were also moments of tension, raised voices, and boundary crossing. Disagreements tend to become more effusive when we are tired, living on top of each other, and facing challenges, fears, and reality-checks.

But living together on a tiny ass boat can also be sobering when you acknowledge that conflict corrodes the atmosphere for all.

And maybe that's why the saying “we are all in the same boat” is so dang efficient in conveying the need to reach some sort of truce, if not an agreement, with pirates and MAGAs alike.

Especially when there is no plank to walk.

Guatemala. Who would have thought that I’d fall head over heels for this country and its people?

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In October, I finished my gig in Las Vegas and jumped on a plane to Mexico City. There, I suddenly realised that my journey would take me through Oaxaca, the region known for the country’s most vibrant and elaborate Day of the Dead celebrations.

There was only one problem: I didn’t have a place to stay, and hotels were sold out months ago.

So I did what I’ve gotten accustomed to doing on this trip. I decided to manifest someone to stay with.

I know that when you manifest, you’re only supposed to use the power of your mind. But I’m not quite there yet, and instead, I’ve designed my own manifestation technique. It’s simple: I write down what I want, taking a few steps in the right direction, and trust that the universe will meet me halfway.

So I sent a few texts to my Mexican friends to see if they knew anyone in Oaxaca, and immediately went out to have tacos.

And it worked: the guy standing next to me at the taco stand happened to have the same hand tattoo as I do, and after a short chat, he told me that he was going to Oaxaca for Day of the Dead and that I could stay with him and his friends. And people claim magic isn’t real…

First lesson: Death can be joyful and just fucking fun

I spent the first few days of the celebrations in Zipolite, a small nudist beach town on the Pacific coast. There, I was invited to stay at the family-run hotel Budamar, where Miraceti and her family hosted a pageant to honour Catrina, the lady of death. Not to be feared but rather to be befriended.

Unfortunately (but deservedly), I did not win.

But I did get my face painted in an impressive collaborative work of art, and I got to flaunt my look next to a few naked penises. Which felt like a win: for me, death will from now on always be associated with the dick of a cheerful German tourist with a flower painted on the crown of his head. And that beats a lot of other associations.

I should know. I’ve accompanied my partner to his death. My associations are both profound and difficult. But not joyfully absurd.

Second lesson: Grief feels lighter when it is shared

After Javier’s death, I’ve remembered him on the anniversary of his passing. And on his birthday.

It sometimes feels lonely. His family is usually far away, and I feel compelled to spend time in solitude to honour Javier’s memory. Talking about him feels like imposing my grief on others. And when you lose a partner in your thirties, you often feel like you’ve been condemned to grieve alone.

In Mexico, Dia de los Muertos showed me what I already knew but sometimes struggle to feel: that I’m not alone in experiencing grief and loss.

Remembering Javier alongside a sea of people who were also remembering their loved ones felt… comforting. It relieved the burden of having to mark the date in my calendar. Of having an obligation to step out of my everyday routine to honour my partner, since there’s already a day for that. It felt lighter.

Third lesson: Relationships don’t end with death

And yes, seeing how the Mexicans remember their dead stirred something in me.

Their relationship to the dead isn’t abstract. It isn’t just a thought. A fleeting memory. A faded picture.

No. The Mexicans spend weeks preparing. They carefully and intentionally create altars in their homes. They make small offerings to the people they have lost. They decorate and visit their tombs—they eat lunch and dinner at the graves. They play live music. They talk to the dead. They share stories. They meditate. They drink, sing, and laugh. They spend time with them.

Walking through the graveyards and seeing how these places came alive was a powerful reminder that relationships based on love are never-ending. Even when the other is gone, we keep them alive in the countless conversations we have with them in our minds.

The sign

Seeing so many people go to such lengths to pay tribute to their dead inspired me.

At the graveyard in the center of Oaxaca, I decided I would search for a grave that said Javier. Apparently, it is not a common name in Mexico, cause I could not, for the life of me, find any.

So I kinda gave up on the idea.

“It can say Romero as well,” I reasoned—Romero was Javier’s last name. And as soon as I had finished that thought, I saw it: a tomb that said Romero. “Wow!” I laughed to myself, “That was fast.” And then, tears, as I looked closer and realised that the grave I had found belonged, indeed, to Javier Romero.

There he was. Waiting for me. Comforting me. And impatiently demanding that I pay attention to our encounter: “If you’re gonna be worrying about practicalities, I’ll leave,” he said, as my mind drifted.

And that’s how I knew it was really him.

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Spirituality for consumption

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