Rob-Rivera.com

Panamanians and the Public Transportation System

My Chevy Spark, the Red Bean, after the car crash late one Saturday night.

I was driving down towards my home one fateful Saturday night when I unexpectedly got into a car crash. Luckily no one got hurt and all damages were cosmetic, but the crash triggered a series of events that ultimately left me without a car for a number of weeks, having to rely on the Panamanian public transport system to take me places. Considering I left cabs and buses when I started driving about half a decade ago, this new status quo had some degree of culture shock packed within it. What follows is a reprise of the trials and tribulations of getting around in Panama City when you’re on nothing more than your own two feet with chump change to get you in the occasional bus or a cab, and the pros/cons of the current system. The funky colors and highly inaccurate likenesses painted on their emergency doors are about all that’s attractive about them, and cabs can come in all shapes, sizes, creeds and levels of danger. To say I will enjoy the catharsis this piece will bring is a gross understatement.

Let’s get this out of the way: I’m a middle class type of guy. The approach I’m using is one from a person who doesn’t need to use public transportation; in other words, I’m an outsider. Reports from the Panamanian Transit Authority state that there are more than 40,000 vehicles approved to transport passengers, a number that includes taxis, city and charter buses; some odd 65-70% of Panama City’s population uses the system daily, at anywhere between $.25 cents (regular, bare-bones bus) to $1.50 (“luxury” buses that take Corredores Norte y Sur to get to their destinations faster), with cab fares varying on destination. These people surely know about the intricacies of said system, stuff that’s readily apparent to me now; in any case, this one goes out to those who don’t know and are curious.

The first thing I had to do the Monday morning after the crash, when I had to tend to my clients (yes, Rob has “clients”), the paradigm shift was quick to strike: my work tools include a voice recorder, digital camera, assorted pens, trusty notebook and my laptop, a.k.a. Maurah Mach 3 (there were two others before her, you see). Having the car (from here on referred to as the “Red Bean”) for transport meant being able to carry bag filled with my tools to places in relative safety. Now? Not so much. Oh-so-regrettably having to turn down the option of hopping into a bus with $1,000+ of vital gear, buses where people get mugged on a regular basis especially if you look like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, I decided to give taxi cabs a try.

The Panamanian taxi cab is probably the most self-centered, egotistical, sexist and downright dickish mode of transportation we have in the country. Don’t let my gross generalization fool you: there are plenty of delightful cab drivers who surprise you with stimulating conversation and a chance to check the pulse of the true, hardworking Panamanian. Thing is, cabs are reigned by two intangible sets of physics laws that are irrefutable and all-encompassing. First, Murphy’s Law of Probability. This applies in the simple credo that when you need one, they’re nowhere to be found; decide you’d rather walk though, and watch as cabs come out from all streets, down from the trees, and out of the sewers honking for your attention.  Second, Forrest Gump’s Life Proclamation, because cabs are like a box of chocolates: you never know what you’re going to get.

A prime example of my Panama Cab Theory in action is this little nilly where there mission was to go to the National Library (beautiful library) at the Omar Park (beautiful park) for some ISBN numbers. The place where I picked up the mission was in the Perejil neighborhood, and with the trademark city traffic that would make a priest want to punch an orphan, it would take me anywhere between 20-40 minutes to get there if I had the Red Bean with me. But I didn’t. With that, I wisely thought of leaving my trusty utility bag, grab the essentials and get out there in search of a cab. Miraculously, I managed to score one who’d mercifully take me there, talking about topics that ranged from the U.S. presidential election, Panamanian corruption, Panama’s national holidays for November, and the pros/cons of drinking on the job. Having dreaded the worst, it was refreshing to have been on a painless, even delightful cab ride to the library. The good karma continued well into my due diligence at the library; if you ever have to take out bar codes or ISBN numbers for your books, the process only takes a few minutes and the staff there is very helpful. A barcode and ISBN will ring you up $20 and it’s valid worldwide.

Literary verbose aside, the time I spent at the library was less than the time it took me to get there. The real challenge presented itself when I had to go back to the Perejil area from where I was, which is in Vía Porras and roughly 10km away in a straight line, definitely more judging by the way streets are laid out. Traffic time: 20-25 minutes approximately. Do you believe in miracles?

Because that day I sure didn’t. Noted exceptions aside, most cab drivers are total dickwads. There currently is a law that supposedly “overhauled” the tariff structure taxis had been using since the 1960’s, dividing Panama City into zones and sub-zones, letting the drivers apply new, mildly-more-expensive rates. In return, gone would be the days where you had to ask cab drivers to take you to your destination like they’re doing you a favor. I had the wildly idealistic notion that, given my excellent cab experience that same day, things had changed for the better.

Wrong. WRONG!

I walked under the scorching tropical sun at 2pm up Via Porras stopping any cab driver that would give me the time of day. At first, I politely mentioned “Perejil” when they stopped to ask where I was going before they flicked their wrists in discontent and drove off like I was a dirty tramp. Subsequent tries saw my patience quickly diminish, my plea eventually devolving to a kind of rhetorical question since I knew cab drivers would just keep on neglecting my ass anyway. After walking for close to 20 minutes and 3km or so, I saw what looked like the intersection with Via España, one of the main arteries of Panama City and, frustratingly so, the halfway marker of what should’ve been my taxi ride. I then thought that perhaps it’d be a great idea to simply hop on a bus and go straight to where I was going; Perejil is at the end of Via España, so it seemed logical. Of course, it seemed logical because my brain was fried and juiced up on UV rays, but I digress.

Where do I start with these buses? Oh, alright, here’s a good way to kick things off on the right foot: Our public transportation kills people. It’s sort of a given for these buses to do whatever they damn well please while on the road, and calamity is so intrinsically linked to them that finding someone who’s been in a car crash involving a bus (and survived) is within three degrees of separation. In fact, let me add you to the fun and show you your 2nd degree person who’s crashed, bear reader: My dad was on his way to my half-sister’s place about ten years ago, when he stopped at a light to get off the main way and turn left. A couple of buses where having a race and, since most of these are second-hand, 30-year old school buses, one of them lost control and headed itself on a collision course towards my dad’s car, a 1994 Mitsubishi Galant. The trunk was rendered useless, but the car ran; not surprisingly, the bus left and successfully pulled a hit-and-run. In all fairness, the bus driver wouldn’t really get a pass when the transit cop came to assess the situation, considering that he was having a race in a busy highway, at 3:30 pm on a Wednesday, using a bus full of passengers. The bus driver didn’t go to the trial and no one was held accountable for the car (or my dad’s) damage, but it’s expected… they never show up.

With this in mind, I resentfully hop on the route bus making its way down to Via España and simply use the bus system to get to my destination. Traffic on Via Porras was stale and the bus was packed and hot; officially, it’s against the law for a bus to have passengers standing up, but as you might have deducted by now, the enablers of the public transport systems do whatever they want anyway. I was carrying my bag, but only had files, a book and my trusty pen… stuff that apparently wasn’t appealing to the guy who felt up my bag on the way over to the stop; you have to be ready, especially when it comes to these buses, to be on your toes and subject yourself to a crappy experience. It’s not always like this, but it’s good to keep an eye out on your belongings and be aware of your surroundings, because it the 30-year old bus doesn’t have a mechanical malfunction, then a passenger might try to mug you, going so far as killing you if need be. It seems that only people sitting down get killed, though, so the illegal stand-up bus ride has its upside.

Then there’s the “secretary” or assistant to the bus driver, most commonly referred to as “pavo” (turkey). Why “turkey?” I have no damn clue. Thing is that this turkey is the usher of the bus, with such delightful greetings such as “jump in because we’re not stopping” or “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” I came to the conclusion that, at least in the bus I was in, its turkey has clocked his brain out and was letting his penis do most primary functions, since he rubbed himself against some schoolgirls more than once on the ride over and kept throwing his mad lyrics at them like they were going to get him anywhere with the obviously-preteen girls.

Getting out of the longest, most tense 10-minute ride of my life, I was on the halfway marker and decided I should probably just try getting a cab. My flawed logic devised that since Via España is straight, the cab drivers will want to take me now, right? Right? Ahh, this question would keep playing itself throughout the hallways of my mind and, there to answer, Lex Luthor as played by Kevin Spacey kept rearing his totalitarian, bald head for a reality check.

An extra 20 minutes later my sockless feet begin to show signs of wear-and-tear, with blisters, pain and all that jazz. I was at Via Argentina by this point, with a monumental sense of defeat that could only be trumped with the bittersweet triumph of convincing a cab driver to take me to my destination. Without an ounce of resolution in my bones, I signaled off a cab and he stopped. I frowned and said “I’m going to Perejil, man” in the same tone you use to break bad news. The cab driver then assessed me, looked out to the road, then me, then the road, then me… suddenly, he flicked his fingers, sucked his lips and told me to get it. The gracious cab driver decided to cut me some slack and take me to where I needed to go as a favor, one I’ll be literally paying for five minutes after the fact. I didn’t even think much of the whole exchange, though; any other day or circumstance would’ve had me flicking the guy off, but I was so tired and felt so demoralized that I took the opportunity regardless.

The driver of this second cab ride is the common, Panamanian cab driver: rude, selfish, and sexist. He was playing a badly-burned salsa mix CD and would change tracks using his cocaine fingernail. Outside of the fact that he tried (and succeeded) picking up more passengers, which is officially illegal thanks to the same zoning laws that apparently no one follows, he’d only stop for mildly attractive women. He’d even change to his boyfriend voice and everything; men and ugly/huge women would be ignored. Eventually I got there, was charged the new, more-expensive rate and got off the cab to my destination, an hour late.

During my personal, introspective journey that day, I thought about what exactly was wrong with the transport system and what could be done to fix it. My assessment is that the only way cab drivers will do things like they should, and this comes from my conversation with the nice cab driver I met that same day on the way to the library, is about the fuel; when you’re going across town to drop a passenger and can only charge the passenger $2.60 or something of the sort, expenses turn out greater than the profit. The unfortunate answer for this is to put a meter. Setting up an appropriate system that’s proportional to the socio-economical reality of the populace and is satisfactory to the cab drivers and their handlers might solve this whole selectiveness that cripples the system. It’s unfortunate and it sucks, but sweet baby Jesus if it’s not a pain in the ass to chase down cab drivers and plead to their good graces to take passengers where they want to go. The transit authority has the responsibility of implementing the new tariff system but their performance is comparable to bringing a knife to a gunfight; buses continue doing whatever they want, running over everything and everyone left and right but it seems that the government’s public transportation revamp plan is well underway, revolutionizing the whole system by replacing all of the old buses with new, charter buses and uniformed, trained drivers. There will be specific routes and, according to their press releases, gone will be the days when you feared for your life every time you jumped into one of those death traps. Only time will tell what happens with the “Transmovil” initiative, as it’s called, and it’ll supposedly be put in place come January. I’ll hop on one of those and let you know what happens, I suppose.

In the meantime, Panamanians and foreigners alike are stuck with deficient, dangerous public transportation. I did some digging on YouTube because I love you, and I found this interesting mini-documentary on what it’s like to me a habitual user of the Panamanian, piss-poor transport system. It shows both sides of the pseudo-struggle, and it’s pretty fascinating to watch bus drivers try to explain themselves. The video is in Spanish, so English-only speakers should pop out them dictionaries.

Check Out These Related Posts!

Panamanians and Transportation:
I've touched on this topic before here and here, but I want to address this particular stain in Panama's white dress; the public transportation system that we've had in place for the past 50 years is among the most terrible, disorganized cesspools of radioactive filth that the civilized world has...

Panamanians and Negligence:
If you're not in Panama at the moment then you might not know what happened yesterday so I'm going to do a quick recap; I apologize beforehand for not mentioning this sooner but I'm going through the motions and was not going to post today anyway but I found an...

Panamanians and Jaywalking:
I was with my dad doing the morning commute to the office and while he rambled on about the topics he likes to angrily rant about I kept prying into other cars, trying to tune out the noise. We were in Via España, a 5-lane, one way avenue that is...

Panama and Delusional Culture:
I’ve been called a megalomaniac before. A “pathological egotist.” I wonder why that is, but then again, if I didn’t have to wonder then it wouldn’t make me much of a megalomaniac because they have delusions of grandeur. Keyword here being “delusion.” People who are delusional usually don’t know it...