Little Cowboy Cabbie
In a life of adventure travels, the cab ride to Caracas airport yesterday will have to rank.
The guy was right on time, 11:30, which was good because I was pressed for time. Before we left he looked under the hood and reported that he needed a new part (I didn't understand which). Traffic on the highway was thick because of student demonstrations. He had the windows open and the smog on the stop-and-go highway was gagging me. He was very accommodating, turning on the air (No AC, but air) and checking its flow and looking back to see whether I was sweating.
We listend briefly to Tracy Chapman's "Revolution" then to a talk show in which the hostess mentioned "Yankee imperialism" and said Chavez's commitment to the poor did not change once he was elected, unlike Lula in Brazil. It was Che Guevara's birthday, and they were celebrating in Argentina. "Are you a follower of Che?" he asked. "Si, como que no," I said.
He was a short man who could have used a phonebook to sit on. His arms were nearly fully extended in the reach to the wheel. He wore glasses and his nose was so small I looked in the rearview to see how it was holding them up.
I didn't ask if he was a Chavista, because it was obvious by his choice of radio station. The country was divided, and you could tell which side someone was on by looking at their color or clothes or what TV or radio station they had on. This guy's color and clothes could have gone either way, but the radio station was a giveaway. There is no neutral in Venezuela, all information is either pro- or anti-Chavez and pro- or anti-socialism.
To avoid the highway traffic, he asked me, "Should we take the Old Highway?"
It sounded ominous. Why was he asking me for advice? "Is it faster?" I said.
"It's longer, but no lines," he said.
"So it's faster?"
"I think it might be better."
We spent the next hour winding along mountain roads through the barrios that contain the impoverished heart of the country living in shacks. We were going about five mph, but he kept pointing across the valley at the highway, which was at a standstill. "Look! Look!" he kept saying, staring across the valley instead of at the trucks headed right for us around the bends. "Cola! (Line!)" he said. "Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola!Cola!Cola!"
He was excited about his choice to take the old highway, which was more a thin winding road than a highway, but soon we were deep in the mountains. People were darker-skinned here. They looked nothing like the rich white student demonstrators. Trash filled each crease in the mountain.
At a fork, he made a wild guess. "I got lost, I got lost, I got lost," he said. But he had chosen the right way. We slowly passed a sweating, perhaps drunk man who was either angry or confused at the presence of a taxi in this barrio. He peered in the window to see who the passenger was. The driver reached back and locked my door, then reached behind him and locked the other door. "It's very dangerous here," he said, "many thieves. Muchos chorros."
Going around these bends, he was passing trucks and buses without knowing what truck might be coming our way. The plastic bag with my snacks kept sliding back and forth across the back seat. Once, he swerved at the last second away from an oncoming truck. He gasped through his teeth. "The trucks are abusive!" he said. "They are in my lane." He hit a wet patch and lost control of the car for a moment. The wild jerks of the wheel reminded me of the video games we used to play, the driving ones where you hit an oil patch and yank the wheel so hard the machine shakes. He kept looking in the rearview for my reaction.
There was another split in the road and again he guessed. We were lost again, but this time too he had guessed right. He handed me his card and said, "If you ever need a ride to the airport call me." Hmm, you have a broken car, you got lost twice, nearly killed us eight times, took us through barrios where we could have been carjacked, and you give me your card?
He was thrilled when we finally spotted the airport from the top of the 9,000-foot mountain. He raced us down the snakey road, and guess what he got me there on time! After that incredibly long detour, I thought for sure he would double the price, but he stayed true to his word--100,000 Bolivars. He looked so proud of his work. "You see," he said, "the old highway was better."
"Thank you," I said, "it was an adventure."
He laughed. "Yes, an adventure!"
The guy was right on time, 11:30, which was good because I was pressed for time. Before we left he looked under the hood and reported that he needed a new part (I didn't understand which). Traffic on the highway was thick because of student demonstrations. He had the windows open and the smog on the stop-and-go highway was gagging me. He was very accommodating, turning on the air (No AC, but air) and checking its flow and looking back to see whether I was sweating.
We listend briefly to Tracy Chapman's "Revolution" then to a talk show in which the hostess mentioned "Yankee imperialism" and said Chavez's commitment to the poor did not change once he was elected, unlike Lula in Brazil. It was Che Guevara's birthday, and they were celebrating in Argentina. "Are you a follower of Che?" he asked. "Si, como que no," I said.
He was a short man who could have used a phonebook to sit on. His arms were nearly fully extended in the reach to the wheel. He wore glasses and his nose was so small I looked in the rearview to see how it was holding them up.
I didn't ask if he was a Chavista, because it was obvious by his choice of radio station. The country was divided, and you could tell which side someone was on by looking at their color or clothes or what TV or radio station they had on. This guy's color and clothes could have gone either way, but the radio station was a giveaway. There is no neutral in Venezuela, all information is either pro- or anti-Chavez and pro- or anti-socialism.
To avoid the highway traffic, he asked me, "Should we take the Old Highway?"
It sounded ominous. Why was he asking me for advice? "Is it faster?" I said.
"It's longer, but no lines," he said.
"So it's faster?"
"I think it might be better."
We spent the next hour winding along mountain roads through the barrios that contain the impoverished heart of the country living in shacks. We were going about five mph, but he kept pointing across the valley at the highway, which was at a standstill. "Look! Look!" he kept saying, staring across the valley instead of at the trucks headed right for us around the bends. "Cola! (Line!)" he said. "Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola! Cola!Cola!Cola!"
He was excited about his choice to take the old highway, which was more a thin winding road than a highway, but soon we were deep in the mountains. People were darker-skinned here. They looked nothing like the rich white student demonstrators. Trash filled each crease in the mountain.
At a fork, he made a wild guess. "I got lost, I got lost, I got lost," he said. But he had chosen the right way. We slowly passed a sweating, perhaps drunk man who was either angry or confused at the presence of a taxi in this barrio. He peered in the window to see who the passenger was. The driver reached back and locked my door, then reached behind him and locked the other door. "It's very dangerous here," he said, "many thieves. Muchos chorros."
Going around these bends, he was passing trucks and buses without knowing what truck might be coming our way. The plastic bag with my snacks kept sliding back and forth across the back seat. Once, he swerved at the last second away from an oncoming truck. He gasped through his teeth. "The trucks are abusive!" he said. "They are in my lane." He hit a wet patch and lost control of the car for a moment. The wild jerks of the wheel reminded me of the video games we used to play, the driving ones where you hit an oil patch and yank the wheel so hard the machine shakes. He kept looking in the rearview for my reaction.
There was another split in the road and again he guessed. We were lost again, but this time too he had guessed right. He handed me his card and said, "If you ever need a ride to the airport call me." Hmm, you have a broken car, you got lost twice, nearly killed us eight times, took us through barrios where we could have been carjacked, and you give me your card?
He was thrilled when we finally spotted the airport from the top of the 9,000-foot mountain. He raced us down the snakey road, and guess what he got me there on time! After that incredibly long detour, I thought for sure he would double the price, but he stayed true to his word--100,000 Bolivars. He looked so proud of his work. "You see," he said, "the old highway was better."
"Thank you," I said, "it was an adventure."
He laughed. "Yes, an adventure!"
posted by Thon at 10:24 AM
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