Rusted Wheel, Silversun Pickups

“Quick, ask that cab!” She pointed as I hung my hand from my wrist.

“¿Buenas, cuanto es para ir a Ciudad de Saber?” I asked.  He looked at me, hesitated, then said, “Seis.”

We looked up, nodded at each other and the three of us climbed into the cab.

It wasn’t early, but a late night the night before led to a quiet cab ride.  Along with two other members of the team of editors of the newsletter, we were heading into the Panama City Peace Corps office to work.  With sufficient numbers, cabs are easier than attempting to navigate the treacherous bus and metrobus system.  But cabs are rarely easy.  Our late night and being in a hurry didn’t help our cause.  Looking out the window, each of us slowly began to realize – we weren’t on our way to Ciudad de Saber, rather making our way, rather quickly, to Albrook Mall, in the opposite direction of where we wanted to go.  We looked at each other in silent communication: Where are we going?  Why are we going this way?

“This is the most round about way to get to Ciudad de Saber I’ve ever seen,” she said.

We nodded in agreement, as suddenly, the cab driver stopped.  He turned around, telling us to pay him three dollars, and to get out.

“But made an agreement, and now you’re breaking it?” she was direct.  “You can’t do that.  Take us to Ciudad de Saber.”

He explained to us that he thought Ciudad de Saber was a different place, but it was too far.  He wouldn’t take us past here, and if we got out here, we needed to pay him.

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” I asked.  “We’ve been here the entire ride, you could have mentioned something earlier.”

The cab driver started to get angry, telling us his option was fair, his prices were fair.  We were stupid to not take advantage of it – no other cab driver in all of Panama would do this.  In English, we began discussing options.  We could get out here, not pay and run.  We could pay him and take the loss.  We could sit, refusing to leave, until he took us to Ciudad de Saber.  Finally, he lost his patience with us.  “¿Quieren preguntar la policia?”

In the backseat, we looked at each other, glancing toward our comrade in the front.  “Dale,” we said, almost in unison.

He now turned his course to the police station, and we dialed the office.  As we spoke on the phone, we arrived at the police station.  Our driver left the cab, speaking to an un-interested police officer.  I rolled down the window, and as I began listening, I realized, he wasn’t telling the story right.  I corrected it, and the officer made it clear how little he cared.  We gathered our belongings from the cab and he drove off.  We paid nothing.

One of the hardest parts of being a foreigner in any country – especially one you look like you shouldn’t speak the language of – is that so many try to take advantage.  For no other reason than I do not appear Panamanian, or Latina in general, and therefore must not speak Spanish at all, I must suffer the attempts to take advantage.  Being a white woman, it sometimes seems worse – the catcalls (piropos) never end, and having to calculate most prices through the “gringo tax” is annoying.  And if I happen to already be short tempered, whether from a late night or frustrations with my community or friends and family back home, the taxista better be prepared for a foulmouthed fula swearing up his cab.