When I mention to new acquaintances that my wife and I don't own a car, they wrinkle their brows in response. "How do you get around Panama, then?" is the question I'm usually asked.
"Public transportation," I answer.
"But you both have good jobs. You can afford a car."
"I know. But we choose to use public transportation. We prefer it." The look in their eyes usually says,"You're nuts!" But people are, in general, more polite than that when they're getting to know someone, so they merely walk away, shaking their heads in disbelief.
My wife, Erinn, and I have been in Panama for a year now. For three years prior to this we lived in Nicaragua. Our last two years there we got around in public transportation. Let me assure you, in comparison, Panamanian public transportation is luxurious. For starters, air conditioning is nonexistent on Nicaraguan taxis and buses --- and that country is every bit as hot as Panama. Some of these vehicles are relics of the Sandinista era, worthy of being on display in a museum devoted to transportation in the former Soviet Union. Others are in such lamentable shape that it is common to see buses and taxis stranded in the middle of the road, their axles broken. Moreover, in their quest to earn a few extra cordobas, bus drivers and their assistants pile more human beings into the vehicle than the designers had ever dreamed possible. The same applies to taxis. It all reminds me of the stunt college students in the States used to pull during the 60s where they tried to see how many bodies could be crammed into a VW Bug. In short, the notion of traveling in comfort is totally alien to Nicaraguans.
This is why my wife and I don't mind using Panamanian public transportation. The only place where I draw the line --- Erinn is not as picky --- is that I do my utmost to avoid getting on taxis or buses that don't have air conditioning. After two years of swallowing diesel fumes and dust in Nicaragua, I believe that I've done enough of that type of penance for one lifetime.
I'm an associate professor at Florida State University-Panama. (It's a marvelous project that will succeed fabulously once we've moved beyond the transition stage.) You will never catch one of our Panamanian students, who come from the nation's upper economic echelons, riding on a Diablo Rojo. In fact, they look at me in horror when I confess that I will gladly hop onto one as long as it has air condition ing. Nor do I think it likely that I will bump into any of my colleagues while taking a bus to the interior.
I can honestly say to these good folks that they don't know what they're missing. All they need to do is to ask the US students who've come to FSU-Panama to learn more about the language and the culture. I always take them shopping to Avenida Central, and then we take a bus ride that leaves us two short blocks from my home.
"That was so cool!" they invariably state afterward, their eyes wide with wonder. "The Panamanian students warned me about going on this trip. They said that I'd certainly be mugged, if not killed."
"Yeah, ... right," I say.
I've learned more about Panama's true countenance by riding in taxis and buses than by any other means. In choosing to use public transportation, I get to share space with the broadest cross-section of this nation's humanity --- the indigenous, the blacks, the Asians, the mestizos, and every racial mix in between. And this is, beyond any doubt, an experience that greatly enriches my life.
If you also stop to think about it, taking public transportation reduces stress. My wife and I don't have to worry about making car payments, paying for insurance, buying tires, getting into an accident, finding parking, getting lost, filling the tank with gas, taking the darn thing to the mechanic, or being hopelessly caught in yet another of Panama City's seemingly infinite tranques (we can always climb out of the vehicle, find a nice bar, and wait until the traffic jam clears up).
Every day I take a taxi to and from work --- from Obarrio to La Boca, in Balboa. While in transit I get to review my lesson plans one last time before classes, or I can begin to prepare for the following day. Often, though, supposedly to avoid the more congested routes, taxi drivers take me through San Felipe and El Chorrillo. During this part of my journey I close my books and observe the movement of the people who dwell in the capital's most colorful barriadas. The human scenery that passes before my window fascinates me. The faces I see are tinted with hope, love, humor, preoccupation, and determination. But I seldom, if ever, see despair. "Panama p'alante," I think to myself during these forays into the city's most noteworthy working class neighborhoods.
On occasion, whenever a taxi driver catches me looking up from my work, he (and occasionally, she) will engage me in a philosophical discussion. I welcome these interruptions, for it is during these sessions that I learn the most about Panamanian culture. Furthermore, a taxi ride will almost always include free lessons in la Musica Folklorica de Panama --- a genre to which the vast majority of taxistas seem to be fiercely loyal. I have to admit that through Panamanian music I've learned to appreciate the sound of an accordion. Prior to moving here I had little respect for the squeezebox. The folk musicians of this nation have learned to milk the instrument for all it's worth, and to delightfully joyful effects. But I also confess that I can't tell Victorio Vergara apart from Osvaldo Ayala, or from Sammy and Sandra Sandoval. Still, I have learned to take great pleasure in listening to a saloma. How do you describe this feature of Panamanian folk music to someone who has never heard it? It's something between a yodel and a ... what? A woman having a toenail pulled out? I don't mean to be disrespectful but, honestly, it's the only comparison I can think of. Still, I love salomas. Besides, the point I'm really trying to make is that if I didn't use public transportation I wouldn't get my fortifying daily dosage of Panamanian culture.
Riding to the Interior of Panama is an entirely different matter. My wife and I find the experience very enjoyable (except a couple of times when the air conditioner broke down while returning to the capital). Allow me to begin this discussion by talking about la Terminal de Buses in Albrook. I wonder if Panamanians are aware of what a small marvel they have in this facility. This bus terminal is, by far, the best in the Central American region. Nowhere else in the five Spanish-speaking republics to the north is there something that even comes close. The terminal even boasts --- count them --- two food courts. Moreover, you purchase the bus tickets at clearly marked windows, with no one pushing or shoving to be the first in line (a very common problem in Nicaragua.) The boarding of buses is orderly; everyone sits in a comfortable seat of their very own, without the driver's assistant trying to cram three passengers in a space intended for one; and what's more important, to me at least, the vehicles are air conditioned.
For trips to the interior Erinn and I take along a few snacks, some bottled water, a book to read, our portable cd players, and plenty of music for the voyage --- virtually all the comforts of home. All we need to do is sit back, recline, and enjoy the ride, with little else to worry about.
There are, of course, drawbacks to public transportation. Sometimes the volume of the radio can be a bit too loud. Also, you can't just stop if there's something that looks interesting along the route. Making side trips, away from the primary urban centers, can be a challenge. And things happen much more slowly, so be prepared to spend some time just waiting around. (Such a thing happened recently when on a return trip from Chitre the bus we were on made an unplanned 15-minute stop as a father took his child to a restaurant bathroom to change a very messy diaper.) Nevertheless, with patience, which you'll soon develop if this becomes your principal mode of getting around, you can learn to have fun in handling the inconveniences.
I highly recommend Panamanian public transportation. The only thing you really need is a sense of adventure. Besides, especially for those who are here for only a short visit, how else are you going to get to hear the virtually indescribable saloma?
