There are some lessons you have to learn over and
over again. Especially if you are an
optimist, like I am. One of those is how
to deal with taxi drivers. Basically
your position is (or should be) much like that of the US when dealing with
Russia relative to nuclear arms treaties: “Trust but verify.” Oh yeah.
In the morning, I only want a relatively short ride
to the Casco Viejo ruins. The
magnificent ruins of this Unesco World Heritage site give at least a suggestion
of what was once one of the grandest colonial cities in The Americas. The Spanish built this city right on the
waterfront, as a transit point for all the gold they were acquiring (how they
got it and the misery index this caused is a different story). It featured storied churches, warehouses,
villas, and mercantile buildings in a classic Spanish style – stone and adobe
walls, and red tile roofs.
But Pirates – including the English privateer Henry
Morgan – found the settlement easy pickings.
The enclave was sacked and completely burned in 1671. The Spanish then moved to a rocky promontory
eight miles away (now Panama Viejo and San Felipe) that could be more easily
defended, including with a walled enclosure.
What remains today are mere hints at the grandeur of what once was a
treasure haven and a lively example of the finest architecture Spain had to
offer over 440 years ago. The trip is
supposed to cost me $8.
However, my taxi driver – let us call him “Max” –
suggested there were other things nearby I might want to see. He hints that they are in line with each
other, and along the way, so for a little extra money I can see many of the
things missed previously. This includes
a nearby playa or beach out of the
city’s reach that is very tranquil and used largely by locals, and the graceful
arch shaped Bridge of the Americas
which serves as the gateway to the Panama Canal from the Pacific. His meter is turned off after our initial
discussion.
So we visit Casco Viejo. I am impressed with the scope of the early
building there. But largely what I want
is a photo opportunity. He prefers to
give me an extended history lesson. Max
also wants to take me back to San Felipe – “to see it right.” I remind him I’ve been there the day
before. Did everything except for buying
the t-shirt there. His next suggestion
is to take me to the local beach. He tells
me it is just past the Bridge of The Americas, something actually on my
list. I am enjoying the view, the
breeze, the sunshine, and am only marginally aware of the time.
We visit the beach, linger over a couple beers (I
pay for his) and my characteristic bowl of seafood soup, and don’t really think
in terms of driver/client. We are
chatting easily and joking with each other as new friends tend to do. I at
least am thinking, a couple of guys just exchanging pleasantries and sharing stories. I do not realize I am “on the clock.” And that underneath, Max is all business. At the three hour and fifteen minute mark, I
ask Max to take me back to my hostel. It
is time to catch up on blogging, before heading out for the evening. But we get caught up in 5:30 rush hour
traffic, and our return is further delayed.
I ask for the bill at the end. He
demands $60.
I tell him this is too much. It is too much for the local scale per hour
of driving. It is too much considering
what he had represented were his costs.
It was too much, considering half the choices of where we visited were
his. It is too much, in that he had not
given me intermediary pricing or done any soundings on what the bill was to be
so far. It was too much, on the basis of
his work not being a tour, but a series of stops – not all of it chosen by me.
He is however insistent. He insists he is trying to show me the best
side to his country, and trying to be a good host, and now I have dishonored
his intent. He shows me a rate card,
with $20 per hour charges for tourist areas, and $12 per hour charges for straight
driving. “Either way you owe me $60,” he
claims. This is the first time I’ve seen
such a card. I set my jaw and fold my
arms.
“I’m going to get
my money or call the police,” he says. He doesn’t know he has threatened the wrong gringo. “Bring it on,” I rejoin. “I WANT the police to come. They will love hearing about most of the
stops being yours, this supposedly being an $8 fare, this mysterious rate card popping up out of nowhere, and your lack of
explanation re: rates.” I go on to
explain to him that I’d paid $35 for a Panama Canal tour and lengthy wait the
day before, but was willing to pay him $50 now.
He makes a big show of our disagreement, shouting
out in loud Spanish to whatever neighbors will listen. He points at me as “The Ugly American,”
taking advantage of the small Panamanian businessman. It becomes a stage play. He threatens to charge me for the dispute
time while he waits, also. “I will get my money,” he warns. “You will see.” I envision a kangaroo court wherein all
concerned are talking rapid Spanish all around me, I am clapped in irons or
asked to come down to the station, and spend the night in jail to contemplate
the futility of my choices. But I sit on
the edge of his car, cross my arms, and hold my own.
The police arrive.
Max goes into his drama. I say: “Necessita
una policia officer que habla Ingles” (I need a police officer that speaks
English). They call for backup, and try
to negotiate with me. They ask me to pay
the $60, or come down to the station to work it out with a “neutral party.” Neutral?
I scoff at the idea. Then tell
them no. “Necessita una officer que
hable Ingles, aqui” (right here).
Max drops down to $55. I refuse.
They say I must accompany them to the station. Now I get the opportunity play dumb (not
really an act, according to many observers in the Seattle area). I pretend I do not know what they are
saying. “No entiendo” (I don’t
understand), and just settle back in with crossed arms once again. Max and the officers keep shrugging at each
other, as if to say “What do we do now?”
Eventually Max realizes he is losing potential fares
with all this discussion and waiting. He
offers to settle for $50. “That is what
you were offered in the first place,” I remind him. He does not want to hear this. His preference was to make his threats stick,
and make the Gringo pay. He takes the
cash in a surly manner. I insist on a
receipt. He reluctantly writes one out,
and fairly hisses “Have a nice day” upon his departure.
I tell him in
the future he must make his rates clear in advance, including special rates and
special fares for rush hour and visits to so-called “tourist areas.” I believe Max was genuinely trying to provide
a special service and show Panama in its best light. He merely neglected common business practices
and used a little bit of sleight of hand to get there. We part on somewhat eased terms. My final words are: “To be fair you must show your rate card in
advance.”
And with my hostel mates and hostel owner now
looking on me with suspicion, the evening is shot. The observant owner, unaware of the whole
story, asks me for two days payment in advance.
I readily concur and pay up. And then
retreat to my writing table. It is a
form of pouting. But a necessary and
soothing one, at that.
My final day in Panama begins with a ride to the
local zoo, as described in Lonely Planet.
I am going to see a Toucan and a
Scarlet Macaw before I leave, come hell or high water! The zoo is located in Gamboa, an 80 minute
bus ride, or 25 minute taxi ride away at a cost of $20 one-way. I elect the bus to save money at first. But then consider the time difference on the
way over, both coming and going, and ask the taxi driver to take me there
directly for an additional cost. I am
very clear to specify price. I even
write it down and have him nod his head in agreement.
We first drive to what is supposed to be the
zoo. No such understanding on the local
end. “Parque Nacional, or Biological
Reserva?” I am asked. One helpful
employee at the Gambo Rainforest Reserve thinks he knows what I want. He takes me through his grounds, to a long
removed section where you are allowed walking access only. He agrees to meet me back at four pm. I walk for half an hour, and don’t see a
single bird, let alone the colorful beauties I am determined to encounter.
I am then taken to Parque Nacional Soberania,
fronting the Panama Canal as an environmental buffer zone. Same result.
“What is a zoo?” is the general response. They invite me to look for toucans
there. Again on foot. I look at my watch and learn there is very
little time left before Parque National Summit – another animal reserve – is set
to close. I pass on Soberania. There are no signs or hints what I am seeking
is near.
Yet upon arrival at Summit, the guards will not let
me in. While the park closes at five,
entry is denied after four pm. Now, this
is a situation I live for. Those who
know me, have come to understand that at times my raison d’ etre is all about carving out exceptions. A thin purpose, to be sure. But a talent nevertheless. I am not about to accept no as an
answer. Especially when I can fairly
hear Macaws and Toucans from where I stand.
The first guard is intent on not even letting me
lean on the entry rail. I look at my
watch. Time is slipping away. I plead entry with him again. And then ask for his supervisor. He reluctantly walks off to find him,
shuffling slowly as he retreats. What
seems like interminable minutes later, his supervisor arrives. Dressed in a fresh military uniform. He has that same authoritian mindset held by
his predecessor.
“Rules must be obeyed. Entry is not possible.” I tell them in broken Spanish “what is the
harm, this is my last day in Panama, I’ve come all the way from Seattle, I’m a
writer and you would only want gracious things reported about Panama, yes?” and
“I only need a few minutes.” And then
add optimistically: “No Problema, si?”
He shakes his head no once again.
Says what I want is not possible.
I then ask for HIS supervisor. A
man in more congenial clothing appears.
He listens to my story. The clock
keeps ticking away. My chances continue
to diminish. He also says no. But he smiles as he does so.
I continue my appeal, and look for a way to back-door
the park if necessary. “Give me three
minutes,” he says in his broken English.
When he returns, he is very stern.
I feel like rushing the gate. Catch me if you can. He makes a long, dramatic pause and adds: “You
have fifteen minutes.” I offer money and
rush through the gate. They politely
refuse. The two soldiers who first
refused me, are greatly amused. They are
not altogether peeved that the gringo has prevailed.
Within two minutes, I find my toucans finally. On the final day of a 48-day whirlwind
odyssey. With about ten minutes to
spare. They are beautiful. It is almost a Zen moment. I feel that if I am taken out by a bolt of
lightning or a herd of wild capibaras, or a legion of red fire ants, that all
will now be right with the world.
As a bonus, I get a pix passing back to the entry of
a Galinazu Rey (King Vulture). And then, at nearly the agreed witching hour,
I hear the cackle of the Macaws. They
are high in a cage, but obvious from 100 yards away. I rush over, anxious to stay within my agreed
exit timeline, and snap off a few photos.
They are absolutely exquisite. More
colorful and vibrant that a fruit salad in high-def. I turn and virtually run for the exit. My watch shows straight up five as I pass
through the gate.
Flush with
victory, I ask my new and reliable taxi driver (Luis) to take me directly back
to the city, and my favorite roving walk.
The pedestrian section, in this case the closed-off street of Avenida
Central between Parque Santa Ana and Plaza Cinco de Mayo. Here I find many souvenirs worthy of being
transported home. And, I buy personal
jewelry for the first time in my life.
As a joke, really.
I have seen a gold pendant of a satyr in a
cupid-type pose shooting arrows, and decide it must be mine. There is no telling why. Perhaps that is the lingering pheromones of lucky
persuasion, or the sight of toucans in the afternoon. It matters not. I am feeling amazing, like my world has come
to an ordered close. All is well, that
ends well.
My “Last Supper” is -- as always -- an attempt to
dine at an Italian restaurant. I am looking for the same chance to drink fine
red wine and eat veal scaloppini or trouca
(trout) like I did two years ago in closing out all of South America. But my taxi driver misunderstands, and takes
me in circles for an hour to various Italian pizza joints instead. I finally settle with time loss in mind, on an
Italian diner offering another wonderful calzone (though not as good as that
enjoyed in San Jose), lentil soup, vino tinto, and sangria. The service is very agreeable and the price
even more so.
I do not get the three-hour killer meal I had hoped
for, but with photos of toucans, macaws and even a king vulture safely “in the can,”
it is hard to argue with the day’s success.
I can pack and go to sleep in confidence, knowing I’ve finished strong
and enjoyed a bit of magic in finishing my check-off list objectives with a
last minute surprise ending.
The flight home through Miami is delayed four hours,
for repairs never undertaken. Just
engine cowling scratches that are observed, evaluated, and then evaluated
again. When I arrive in Seattle at 1 AM
after a 12-hour travel day, it is with a longing for hot showers, the feel of
jeans and polo shirts once again in place of nylon, anything salmon, and robust
red wine. There is no regret for a
nearly perfect adventure having come to an end.
