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