A Panamanian Taxi Driver with Good Brakes

We knew Carlos for 20 minutes. We remember him well.

We had tied Maruba to a mooring at the Panama Canal Yacht Club the day before. When we walked through the club house the next morning and stepped out the front door, a car sped across the parking lot and screeched to a stop. “Buenas dias. My name is Carlos. Where do you want to go?”

Four more cars waited on the other side of the lot, their drivers lounging together in the shade of a huge tree. They scowled at us.

Carlos, we learned later, was a pirate. He showed up only when his taxi business was slow. The regular drivers who waited at the yacht club every day cooperated and took turns. When Carlos came in he parked alone under his own tree, then stole work from the others by jumping the queue. They didn’t like him.

Finding our way around in a new place

We cruisers knew that guidance would be waiting whenever we tied up in a new port. Trustworthy entrepreneurs would be hanging out nearby ready to drive us. These drivers spoke good enough English, had good enough vehicles, and were unconcerned with such formalities as taxi licenses.

They were also knowledgeable. They knew where to take us to check in with Customs, Immigration, and the Port Authorities. They knew where the marine supply stores were, as well as the banks, best places to buy groceries, and telephone offices where we could call home.

As they drove us through cities they warned us when to lock the car doors. They pointed out neighborhoods where we should never go after dark,­­­­ and ones where we should never go at all—the ones even the police seldom entered, and then only well armed and together.

The drivers also knew the attractions that might interest us within half a day’s drive of the city.

Usually cruisers connected with a compatible driver on day one, then kept him on call for the duration of their stay.

Getting cheated

As we got in his cab Carlos said, “Is this your first visit to Panama?” Panamanian cab drivers always asked that question immediately. They needed to find out whether the passenger already knew—from experience—that Panamanian drivers cheated.

When friends flew in from Seattle one time we warned them in advance. The cab fare from the airport was $12. They shouldn’t pay a penny more, not even a tip.

 Their driver convinced them $12.00 was just the “base price.” He charged them that and talked them out of $28.00 more.

Bullet holes

A reasonable fare to downtown Panama City firmly negotiated, Carlos drove us out the yacht club gate. We immediately passed a scene of battle damage. The grounds of Fort Mirador, the military base adjacent to the club and Manuel Noriega’s former headquarters, had been determinedly assaulted by U.S. infantry and helicopters three years earlier, in 1989.

Although the major buildings had been restored, two small concrete structures stood abandoned just outside the club gates. A big hole had been blasted through the wall of one. Both were pocked by automatic weapons fire

Cruisers moored at the yacht club had been on their boats during the firefight. Troops had boarded some vessels as they searched for fleeing Panamanian soldiers.

A joint contingent of American and Panamanian soldiers waved us through the Fort Mirador security gate. On down the street, Carlos pointed out the site of a former two-story police headquarters the Americans had targeted. The rubble hauled away, the building had been replaced by a pleasant park with a healthy lawn and a fringe of well started young trees.

Carlos stopped in time, barely

After a few miles Carlos rolled up the car windows and made sure the doors were locked. We left the freeway and entered a grim looking section of Panama City.

The exit ramp made a sharp turn to the right, steeply downhill. The cab sped into the turn without slowing, struck the curb, bounced across the road, almost plowed into a row of parked vehicles, then stopped.

“This guy doesn’t have any brakes,” I said to Barbara. “Let’s get out.” We stepped onto the curb.

“Sure I have brakes,” Carlos insisted. “Watch.”

As we stood on the sidewalk watching, and as a stream of cars leaving the freeway honked and swerved past, Carlos demonstrated that his car had brakes. He would roll ahead a few feet, stomp on the petal, and the car would stop abruptly. After the third repetition, I muttered an apology and we got back in the car.

Carlos, deeply insulted, would not be mollified. Angrily weaving through traffic, he railed against the affront to his car. “Of course I have brakes. I drive a taxi. I have to have good brakes. How do you think I could make a living if I didn’t have brakes?"

Then, after a pause, he continued. “The brakes on my car are fine. It’s the steering that’s no damn good.”

Adventure Well, Janna

This is a personal bon voyage note to granddaughter Janna Tymstra, 20, who left Canada this week for Australia, work permit in hand.

Mother and daughter affirming their bond before 

Janna’s imminent departure for Australia.

Janna, at your age your Granddad also crossed an ocean to live elsewhere for a time. That was almost 60 years ago. Like you, he left fortified by fresh memories of the Rocky Mountains viewed from horseback.

Shortly after that Barbara—the adventures we were to share still half a life time into our separate futures—set out for a year of working in England and traveling in Europe.

There’s a big ­world waiting. It’s filled with new people, interesting places, and things you’ve never seen before. Enjoy, thrive, grow.

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Cat Overboard!