Big Yellow Taxi

       I would like to talk about getting about in Panama.  Taxi cabs are a fine way to get from one place or another.  That is

unless you actually want to get from one place to another.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that the cabbies here don’t know where they’re going.  What I mean to say is that you are taking your life into your hands each time you get in a taxi.  I suppose that is true of any vehicle, but there is something special about the cabs themselves here.  For instance;

       Yesterday, I had planned to walk from where I am staying down the mountain, where I could catch a cab for a trip to Alto Boquete. Normally I would hike down the mountain on a trail, but I didn’t want to get dirty (I sometimes slip and fall on my ample yet firm buttocks).  I put on my normal wardrobe, a pair of shorts, tee shirt, and shoes.  It was about 3:30 in the afternoon and in the rainy season that usually means showers are not far off, so for the first time since I’ve been here I thought it would be prudent to bring an umbrella in case it started to sprinkle during my journey.

      

Before I got to the top of the stairs the sky opened up like a gigantic waterfall from outer space (Star Pours).  The big difference between a waterfall and yesterday’s rain is that waterfalls usually don’t carry thunder and lightning with them.  It rained so hard that my brand new umbrella freaked out and succumbed within the first hundred feet or so.  The force of the rain plowed right through the fabric of the umbrella.  My umbrella was overwhelmed, and still suffers from PTSD - It will not stay open now (seriously).

       As I walked down our little road, I could see images of brown skinned humans, peering out from under awnings and windows, some of them snapping photos, some of them laughing hysterically, still others wagering on whether I would be washed away, never to be seen again.  Two minutes after starting my journey my hair was wet, my shoulders were becoming big wet spots, my shorts were wet, the hair on my

legs was speckled with bits of mud, bugs, and asphalt, and my fancy walking shoes forgot they were shoes at all, making me walk like the weird kid in third grade, whose souls were worn all wonky.

       No matter how I tilted my useless umbrella the rain, which was being whipped by the wind, found its way passed my less than formidable defense and soaked me.  My only hope for survival was to reach the main road where I knew there was a covered bus stop.  Once I got into the little cement shelter I was able to see any approaching traffic through a small window.  Several vehicles went by, there wipers slashing wildly.  A few intrepid ‘hombres’ (that literally translates to ‘One with Gills’) went by, some holding sheets of plastic over their heads, others with hoodies and baseball caps, and all of them better equipped than I.

       As I stood there looking like a soggy Sebastian Cabot,

leaning on my worthless umbrella, I began to realize why Panamanian men wear long pants all the time.  “Could it be…?” I wondered, “…that Panamanians know more about the weather in Panama than I do?”  It plum evaded me.  Then suddenly a yellow and black car appeared through the silver downpour.  At first glance I assumed it had lost its brakes and was careening out of control down the treacherous mountain road.  But I was desperate for a ride and I stuck my umbrella out of the shelter, waggling it like Errol Flynn.

       To my surprise, not only was there someone driving the car, but they seemed to be in control enough to skid to a stop in the middle of the road.  The windows were completely fogged up, which concerned me, but fearing I’d lose my chance to get to the bottom of the mountain before the rain washed away the little town, I opened the door and crawled in.

       The first thing that I noticed was the upholstery – or what

was left of it.  I imagined that the handy work was done by a basket of angry wolverines and a couple of grizzly bears fighting over a live salmon.  The corners of the seats were nothing but foam rubber jutting through the threadbare holes in the fabric.  The driver looked in the rearview mirror and said something in Spanish.  I told him where I was wanting to go and off we went, lurching into the cab’s continuing death ride.

       There was another man sitting in the passenger seat who (I think) began to protest to the driver (I’m assuming) about the sudden detour in his plans.  The driver, who was older and had skin like an unearthed mummy, was leaning over the steering wheel trying to make out landmarks like approaching vehicles and trees, barked at the young man.  If I interpreted him correctly, he said,

       “Unless you would like to die in a horrible, mangled wad of tin and foam rubber – shut your flan hole, por favor!”

       At this point I started looking for the door handle.  The door

only had a nub where the window crank used to be, and a curved piece of metal served as the door handle.  Whatever the driver said worked to quiet the other passenger, because aside from the blaring mariachi music and the occasional swish of the “wiper” blades, the cab was quiet.  The windshield wipers were only shredded, cracked pieces of rubber, held to the metal arm by bread ties, and did nothing to clear the rain from the windshield.  I learned during the ride that there is no translation in Spanish for the English word ‘defrost’ – and even if there were, the dashboard had no labels or knobs, or functioning gauges, so it would not have mattered anyway.

       Well, before you know it we were at the bottom of the hill and I had re-affirmed my vows to be a good person and never again make fun of evangelicals or Chinese people who speak Spanish.  I was glad to hand over every penny I had just to get out of the car, but I was only charged two dollars, which explains why the vehicle was in such prime condition.  It was also less money than it costs to ride the Mad Mouse at Oaks Park, though not nearly as safe. 

       Because I had initially intended to stroll down the mountain I was very early for my appointment with my new landlord.  So I passed the time standing under the awning of the Alto Dorado Market, which is owned and operated by – and I am not making this up – Chinese people who speak Spanish.

Happy Thanksgiving!

DP

Parade Day

       

      

        This is not a sad story.  There is no heartache or loss.  It is the story of a boy and his dog, and how the magic in their lives tricks them.

      On a sunny day, in a small town, in a small country, a big parade was planned.  It was to be a spectacular event, with patriotic speeches in the square, colorful dancers, special meals, and best of all the parade itself.  The streets were adorned a week in advance, with flags, flowers, and bunting in preparation for a special mystery guest. Around the town rumors were whispered.  It was agreed among the wisest in town, that this year the President of the country himself would come to the town to see their fine parade.

       On a hill overlooking the town lived a boy and his little dog. 

For months the boy could hear the drummers practicing in the valley, for the drummers were the pride of the little town.  Day after day, after day, over and over, the drumming went on incessantly until the boy was ready to go crazy.  The little dog paid the drumming no mind, lounging in the tropical sun, digesting her own poop.

       Each year the crowds were great during the parade.  Many people would come to the little town each year just to be a part of the excitement.  The boy was excited too, for it would be his first time seeing the parade.  He pictured himself among the happy crowd, holding his little dog, and watching the colorful marching bands go past.  He would buy a small flag, he thought, and wave it proudly, and he would cheer and whoop when the town’s drummers went by.

On the day before the parade, the boy and his little dog left their home overlooking the town and went to stay overnight with a family on the other side of the valley.  They would get up early in the morning and drive to town in the family’s automobile, then find a good spot to watch the parade.  They all shared a big meal that evening and retired to bed with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads due to the excessive amount of happy juice consumed at the table.

Finally the day had arrived!  The boy rose early, just as the sun was rising.  He dressed, brushed his teeth, and made his bed only to realize that no one in the main house was awake.  So he walked around the big yard while the little dog tiptoed across the dew covered grass looking for a place to leave a snack for later.  It was a grand property with many giant cacti and beautiful flowers.  The boy wished it was his own home, and wondered if the family might give it to him.  They said no.

When he finally went into the main house he drank coffee and talked with the family about the plans for the day.  To his surprise the family had decided to change the plans for watching the parade.

  “Since it is a long parade”, they said, “Perhaps, we do not have to rush. Let’s have a nice, relaxing breakfast,” they said, “then we’ll go to town around noontime.”

This concerned the boy, for he was wise, and had seen many things in his years that started as good ideas, but ended

in disappointment.  Still, he believed the family knew best, also it was hard for the boy to pass up food.  Even so, as he stuffed his pudgy face hole with eggs and potatoes, he worried about the change of plans.

It seemed to take a long, long, long time for the family to be ready to leave, but the boy found a big bug and that helped pass the time while he waited.  Eventually they arrived in town.  Things began to look up when they were pleased to find a decent parking place.  They could hear the marching bands now, and with a sense of relief, and excitement the boy and his little dog had finally arrived at the parade.

  There were many people, but they found a good spot on the sidewalk.  A band dressed in fancy blue outfits played their instruments and marched in place waiting for their turn to join in the wonderful parade.

But something was bothering the little dog, and she pulled and jumped on the end of her leash.  The boy, who was very wise, knew that the music was too loud for the little dog’s sensitive ears, but he hoped that she just had to pee or poop.  So he took the little dog across the street and down another one until he found some grass.  Soon it was clear that the little dog did not need to poop or pee.

The boy loved the little dog, for she loved him, and he decided to carry her in his arms back towards the parade. This seemed to help calm the little dog.  From across the street the two of them watched the band in the fancy blue uniforms begin to march down the street to their own snappy tune. 

The little dog was glad that the music was no longer as loud as it was, but the boy, who was very wise, began to wonder when the next marching band was going to start.  He watched as some of the crowd began to walk down the street, following the fancy blue uniforms, while others went in other directions until there was no one left to watch the parade.  

As the music faded away, the boy and his little dog realized that they had just watched the last marching band march away. They had missed all but the tail end of the parade.  At first the boy was angry that he had trusted the family with the automobile, but mostly he felt sad.  The little dog looked into his eyes and knew that he was sad, so she licked his nostril, to cheer him up.  It worked.

“There’s always next year”, the boy said, and he kissed the little dog on the head.

“Besides”, thought the little dog, “The music was too loud, and I’ve got to poop.”

I told you it was not a sad story.

                                                                 DP