Dracula
Saturday, 21. June 2008, 10:56:11
...continued from last post.
So Ngaire and I hop off the bus from Panama at the supermarket stop and head for the taxi rank. The supervisor sees us coming, finds out where we want to go and while she explains to the driver where to take us, and he understands, (which is a good sign as it is not the usual route for the locals) we hop into the only taxi available.
It is a battered and clapped out wreck, but not as much of a skedonk as the one James and I took in Margarita. When we asked for a taxi, the group of men with their heads under the bonnet, hammering away, simply dropped the bonnet with a clang and said “hop in”. The doors closed with a two inch gap all round and I won’t go into the rest. But that was back in Margarita.
The driver partly turns round to Ngaire and I and I see his one eye is very clouded over. No health and safety issues here about being allowed to drive or even drive public transport. The rules of the road are equally casual. We reach the busy junction of cross country motorway, shopping precinct and downtown main road. Cars, busses, trucks and taxi’s all criss crossing the 5 or 6 way intersection. We have seen very few traffic lights and stop signs. All the four way junctions appear to be controlled by each driver’s sense of fair play and patience. Somehow it usually all works out.
At the sound of a blaring horn and a squeal of brakes and with our bonnet protruding into another lane beyond the back of a bus, our driver turns to reassure us and we see he is ideally suited to these junctions at rush hour – his eyes work independently of each other.
We make it across the BBQ grating over the locks while the water surges below with the pressure of the draining lock and to the end of the forest track just before dark. With a smile our driver offers us his card in case we need a taxi again. His name! - Dracula. I kid you not! You can’t make up stuff like this.
So Ngaire and I hop off the bus from Panama at the supermarket stop and head for the taxi rank. The supervisor sees us coming, finds out where we want to go and while she explains to the driver where to take us, and he understands, (which is a good sign as it is not the usual route for the locals) we hop into the only taxi available.
It is a battered and clapped out wreck, but not as much of a skedonk as the one James and I took in Margarita. When we asked for a taxi, the group of men with their heads under the bonnet, hammering away, simply dropped the bonnet with a clang and said “hop in”. The doors closed with a two inch gap all round and I won’t go into the rest. But that was back in Margarita.
The driver partly turns round to Ngaire and I and I see his one eye is very clouded over. No health and safety issues here about being allowed to drive or even drive public transport. The rules of the road are equally casual. We reach the busy junction of cross country motorway, shopping precinct and downtown main road. Cars, busses, trucks and taxi’s all criss crossing the 5 or 6 way intersection. We have seen very few traffic lights and stop signs. All the four way junctions appear to be controlled by each driver’s sense of fair play and patience. Somehow it usually all works out.
At the sound of a blaring horn and a squeal of brakes and with our bonnet protruding into another lane beyond the back of a bus, our driver turns to reassure us and we see he is ideally suited to these junctions at rush hour – his eyes work independently of each other.
We make it across the BBQ grating over the locks while the water surges below with the pressure of the draining lock and to the end of the forest track just before dark. With a smile our driver offers us his card in case we need a taxi again. His name! - Dracula. I kid you not! You can’t make up stuff like this.
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