Taking a taxi in Lima is a bargaining affair and the prices always start high since I'm clearly a foreigner. Whether or not I will budge on a price is a combination of how well I know the fare and how badly I want to get home. Some days, I'll pay a little more but other days, I fight and fight and then sometimes just walk away.
When a driver submits his opening offer with the diminutive of soles, which is solcitos, there's no doubt in my mind that he's trying to rip me off. Why emphasis the smallness of your offer if it's a fair price?
Last week, the solcitos made an appearance.
Driver: "Ten solcitos."
Me: "No, eight."
Driver: "Um...nine."
Me: "No, I'll pay eight."
Driver: "Nine soles, because I have a clean car just for you, señorita."
And with an eye roll, I opened the door and hopped into the back seat. Then sun had come out that day, which is gladly welcomed in our sun-less Lima winter, but when it comes out, it's hot. I was dressed for winter in summer weather and simply wanted to get home. So the extra sol was worth it, just to get home and ride in clean car.
Showing posts with label Taxis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Taxis. Show all posts
Distractions
I have been cursed with broken luggage. Maybe I pack incorrectly, need sturdier luggage or just have bad luck, but my largest bag always breaks and at the worst times. When I landed in Munich to begin my semester abroad, I pulled an enormous bag off the carousel and noticed that one wheel had broken off. Welcome to Germany, where you will drag 75 pounds to the train station! Last January, I flew from Honduras to Miami en route to Lima. Once again, my largest piece of luggage was destroyed.
Thankfully, there's an abundance of shoe and luggage repair shops near my house. For a decent fee and a few days work, my luggage is "completely new" and ready for my upcoming trip to Nashville. I hailed a taxi to take me home and quickly gave the driver directions.
As he began to turn the wrong way on a one way street I yelled, "You can't go that way!" and he replied:
"I was distracted by your beauty! Your eyes are beautiful."
That's the third time in two weeks that a driver has complemented my naturally bluish green with a hint of yellow eyes. I humbly thanked him as we chatted about the United States and I gave him the last directions to get to my building.
I think it's been a successful day. A half day at work, two rounds of Pisco Sours, a repaired suitcase and a compliment from a taxi driver. All in all, that's not too shabby.
Thankfully, there's an abundance of shoe and luggage repair shops near my house. For a decent fee and a few days work, my luggage is "completely new" and ready for my upcoming trip to Nashville. I hailed a taxi to take me home and quickly gave the driver directions.
As he began to turn the wrong way on a one way street I yelled, "You can't go that way!" and he replied:
"I was distracted by your beauty! Your eyes are beautiful."
That's the third time in two weeks that a driver has complemented my naturally bluish green with a hint of yellow eyes. I humbly thanked him as we chatted about the United States and I gave him the last directions to get to my building.
I think it's been a successful day. A half day at work, two rounds of Pisco Sours, a repaired suitcase and a compliment from a taxi driver. All in all, that's not too shabby.
Mostly European
Most of my taxi drivers don't assume I'm American. They typically assume that I am from a Western European country, the most popular assumptions being France, England and Germany. The conversation usually begins with my driver asking if I'm German, then I smile and say that I am in fact from the States. Which then begins a conversation about Tennessee and whether or not it is close to Arizona or Texas. Um, not quite.
It seems to be a common occurrence among my expat friends. One of my friends has begun to keep track of the various countries he is "from" among them, Canada, France, Australia, Germany, Switzerland and England. But rarely the United States.
It's an interesting phenomena and I'm not sure of the cause. Maybe because I don't dress like an "American tourist" or because my accent is a neutral "foreigner accent" (I would love that!). Either way, I'll take it. It's refreshing to feel like I don't fall into any particular category. That I could easily be from any number of countries based on someone's prior assumptions and/or stereotypes. It makes me feel like I effortless adapt, change and find my place anywhere else in the world.
And most importantly, I love that people think I'm German. Ja, danke.
It seems to be a common occurrence among my expat friends. One of my friends has begun to keep track of the various countries he is "from" among them, Canada, France, Australia, Germany, Switzerland and England. But rarely the United States.
It's an interesting phenomena and I'm not sure of the cause. Maybe because I don't dress like an "American tourist" or because my accent is a neutral "foreigner accent" (I would love that!). Either way, I'll take it. It's refreshing to feel like I don't fall into any particular category. That I could easily be from any number of countries based on someone's prior assumptions and/or stereotypes. It makes me feel like I effortless adapt, change and find my place anywhere else in the world.
And most importantly, I love that people think I'm German. Ja, danke.
Mototaxi
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| Even within mototaxis, the different styles are endless |
There are big buses, medium buses and teeny tiny small buses. There are buses that run through the median and therefore are immune to Lima traffic. Some buses are new and some buses are very, very old. There are motorcycles of all shapes, makes and sizes. Motorcycles for one person, motorcycles that carry small cargo, motorcycles that carry large cargo and motorcycle taxis. There are big taxis, small taxis, single taxis and group taxis. Lima's newest transportation addition is a raised rail system that runs high above the traffic below. Take your pick, there's always a way to get around.
Since arriving in Lima, I have been fascinated by the mototaxi. These small taxis are perfect for maneuvering through small streets and quickly getting passengers from one place to another. While abundant in some districts of Lima, they are forbidden in others. For this reason, I have never had the opportunity to ride one. Until yesterday.
This week while we are on break from school, I am helping a pediatrician missionary who attends our church. Part of his work in Lima is to go to various churches and schools and provide well check ups for the local children. These checkups first and foremost, allow the children to be seen a doctor, but also provide the mission organization with essential data regarding nutrition and health care, so that they can later tailor their help to the need of the area.
Yesterday, as we were leaving the site, he suggested that we take a mototaxi to the nearest train station. And there it was, the moment I had been waiting for- my first ride in a mototaxi. All three of us crammed into the back seat of a taxi slightly smaller than the one in the picture above. With two tall, lanky gringo guys, several backpacks and myself, it was a tight fit. As our driver weaved through traffic, I felt a cool breeze across my ankles then noticed the door flap waving in the wind.
We arrived at our station and saw a sea of other mototaxis waiting to take arriving passengers to their destination of choice. I squeezed through the small door, climbed out and safely landed on the sidewalk below. Now I can add "rode a mototaxi" to my list of Lima firsts. Hopefully, it won't be the last.
Lost
Early one morning on my way to school, I grabbed a familiar bus on a major road in Lima. There are a handful of buses that go the direction I need, so I generally just hop on one of them. When I first began my bus adventures, I would ask every time to make sure that the bus was going in the right direction. On this particular day, I didn't ask.
I immediately paid my fare and told the coin collector where I was going. He collected my coins and we set out to fight the Lima traffic. This particular route goes straight for what seems like forever until it makes a slight right, a left and then I'm at school.
At one particular stop, I noticed a bus of the same line in front of us. I sighed and knew that soon a battle for the road would soon ensure, resulting in me barely hanging onto my seat as the older-than-me buses fight for the title: King of the Pot Holes. However, this didn't happen. My bus turned left. And it turned left nearly 15 blocks before the usual right hand turn.
"It's ok," I thought, "they want to get around the other bus."
As we continued driving and didn't make any attempt to stop our detour, I began to think about the logic of a bus changing the route and realized it was impossible. So I sat there, staring out the side window, weighing my options.
"Are you going to the shopping center?"
"No," señorita, "we're not."
"But you told me you were!!"
Panicked, I jumped off the bus in the middle of the intersection and as my feet hit the ground, I heard a whistle, a "mamaccciiita!" and another whistle. Fantastic. I'm lost. Guys are whistling at me. It's too early for this. I'm carrying too many bags. What do I do now?
I started walking down the road with a familiar sounding name and saw a bus stop up ahead. As I approached it, I noticed that the stop was nothing more than a dingy sign placed alongside a dirt median. The stop was covered in trash that welcomed all the dogs and none of the humans. I was standing there alone. None of the buses were stopping. This is when I began to panic.
I quickly changed the game plan from bus to taxi, but soon noticed that the only taxis traveling on that road were "colectivos," which are group taxis that run a set route. I heard Alvaro's voice in the back of my head, "You are to never, ever take one of those."
I tried to flag down another taxi, but no one would stop. I walked further down the road towards a busier intersection and still no one would stop. As they drove by, drivers shook the fingers "no" at me. I felt as if a spotlight had been placed on me and everyone around me knew I didn't belong there. Finally, one taxi driver stopped and I told him my destination,
"No," he said shaking his head, "I don't go there."
Out of sheer desperation, I begged, "Please, please, please."
"Señorita, no, I don't go there."
"Please!" I pleaded as I clutched my belongings and fought back tears.
"Ok, I'll take you to a calmer street and you can catch a bus from there."
"YES!" I screamed and jumped in the cab.
It was only then that I realized I had not yet settled on a price. An amateur mistake in the world of Peruvian taxis where everything is negotiated. If you don't agree before getting in, you are at the mercy of the driver's price point. But at that point I didn't care. I would have paid anything to be taken away from the trash covered bus stop.
As we approached my exit point, I asked him, "How much, sir." And he replied,
"Nada, señorita."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Nothing?
"Yes, nothing. I was driving this way anyway and you will never get a taxi on that street. It's better for you to be on this end of the avenue."
I told him a little bit of my story, or as much as I could in my frazzled state. I was scared from getting lost. And confused about not paying for my taxi. And more than anything I wanted to be at school.
I hopped out of his taxi and jumped on the first bus that I knew was going to school. Never mind the fact that it was packed well beyond capacity and I spent the first seven blocks standing on the stairs with nothing but a half open door protecting me from terrain below. I was on my way to school and that was all that mattered.
I finally made it, still shaken up but then discovered that there isn't much that a hug from a first grader can't fix.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to my sweet Peruvian taxi driver who fell for my begging and turned my nightmarish morning completely around.
I immediately paid my fare and told the coin collector where I was going. He collected my coins and we set out to fight the Lima traffic. This particular route goes straight for what seems like forever until it makes a slight right, a left and then I'm at school.
At one particular stop, I noticed a bus of the same line in front of us. I sighed and knew that soon a battle for the road would soon ensure, resulting in me barely hanging onto my seat as the older-than-me buses fight for the title: King of the Pot Holes. However, this didn't happen. My bus turned left. And it turned left nearly 15 blocks before the usual right hand turn.
"It's ok," I thought, "they want to get around the other bus."
As we continued driving and didn't make any attempt to stop our detour, I began to think about the logic of a bus changing the route and realized it was impossible. So I sat there, staring out the side window, weighing my options.
Do I stay? Do I get off? But I have no idea where I am. I will be late for school. Maybe they will turn back. Surely he is going back. Why do none of these locations sound familiar?After a few more turns, I saw a familiar street sign. The bus veered right and all my fears disappeared. That is until I realized the slight right turn was only to pick up more passengers and he in fact was turning left. Going far, far away from the familiar street.
"Are you going to the shopping center?"
"No," señorita, "we're not."
"But you told me you were!!"
Panicked, I jumped off the bus in the middle of the intersection and as my feet hit the ground, I heard a whistle, a "mamaccciiita!" and another whistle. Fantastic. I'm lost. Guys are whistling at me. It's too early for this. I'm carrying too many bags. What do I do now?
I started walking down the road with a familiar sounding name and saw a bus stop up ahead. As I approached it, I noticed that the stop was nothing more than a dingy sign placed alongside a dirt median. The stop was covered in trash that welcomed all the dogs and none of the humans. I was standing there alone. None of the buses were stopping. This is when I began to panic.
I quickly changed the game plan from bus to taxi, but soon noticed that the only taxis traveling on that road were "colectivos," which are group taxis that run a set route. I heard Alvaro's voice in the back of my head, "You are to never, ever take one of those."
I tried to flag down another taxi, but no one would stop. I walked further down the road towards a busier intersection and still no one would stop. As they drove by, drivers shook the fingers "no" at me. I felt as if a spotlight had been placed on me and everyone around me knew I didn't belong there. Finally, one taxi driver stopped and I told him my destination,
"No," he said shaking his head, "I don't go there."
Out of sheer desperation, I begged, "Please, please, please."
"Señorita, no, I don't go there."
"Please!" I pleaded as I clutched my belongings and fought back tears.
"Ok, I'll take you to a calmer street and you can catch a bus from there."
"YES!" I screamed and jumped in the cab.
It was only then that I realized I had not yet settled on a price. An amateur mistake in the world of Peruvian taxis where everything is negotiated. If you don't agree before getting in, you are at the mercy of the driver's price point. But at that point I didn't care. I would have paid anything to be taken away from the trash covered bus stop.
As we approached my exit point, I asked him, "How much, sir." And he replied,
"Nada, señorita."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Nothing?
"Yes, nothing. I was driving this way anyway and you will never get a taxi on that street. It's better for you to be on this end of the avenue."
I told him a little bit of my story, or as much as I could in my frazzled state. I was scared from getting lost. And confused about not paying for my taxi. And more than anything I wanted to be at school.
I hopped out of his taxi and jumped on the first bus that I knew was going to school. Never mind the fact that it was packed well beyond capacity and I spent the first seven blocks standing on the stairs with nothing but a half open door protecting me from terrain below. I was on my way to school and that was all that mattered.
I finally made it, still shaken up but then discovered that there isn't much that a hug from a first grader can't fix.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to my sweet Peruvian taxi driver who fell for my begging and turned my nightmarish morning completely around.
First Day
On Saturday, I called a taxi to take me to one of my English classes. I was waiting in the lobby of my building when two taxis arrived at the same time. Confused, I walked outside and was greeted by the driver of the second car. With this greeting, I assumed he was my driver and walked towards his car, but he quickly pointed me towards the first. I got in the car then he looked at me and said, "Señorita, do you speak Spanish?"
I confidently answered, "Yes, of course."
He then told me that my driver was new to the company and might need assistance with the directions to my location. I assured him that I knew the way and it would be no problem for me to direct him. He thanked me for my help and then we were on our way.
As we drove off, I asked my driver, "Señor, is this your first week?"
"No, señorita, this is my first day. My first service on my first day."
I couldn't believe it, for the first time in Lima history, I knew more than a Peruvian. As he struggled to call the base and enter the correct information, I gave him directions and told him the fee. I settled into the taxi and took a look around me. This is my home. Not only is this my home, but this has been my home. So much so that I am now familiar with customs and systems. In that taxi, I was the expert. Sure, it only lasted for a brief ten minutes but in those ten minutes I lost my expatriate naivety and I was the pro.
I confidently answered, "Yes, of course."
He then told me that my driver was new to the company and might need assistance with the directions to my location. I assured him that I knew the way and it would be no problem for me to direct him. He thanked me for my help and then we were on our way.
As we drove off, I asked my driver, "Señor, is this your first week?"
"No, señorita, this is my first day. My first service on my first day."
I couldn't believe it, for the first time in Lima history, I knew more than a Peruvian. As he struggled to call the base and enter the correct information, I gave him directions and told him the fee. I settled into the taxi and took a look around me. This is my home. Not only is this my home, but this has been my home. So much so that I am now familiar with customs and systems. In that taxi, I was the expert. Sure, it only lasted for a brief ten minutes but in those ten minutes I lost my expatriate naivety and I was the pro.
Culture Confusion: Seatbelts
Several months ago, I found myself running errands with Alvaro´s mom and his three aunts. Four Peruvian sisters & me. Talk about being outnumbered. I crawled into the back seat of the SUV and instinctively put on my seatbelt. Within seconds of hearing "click!" one of his aunts said, "Oh, how cute! Meghancita is wearing her seatbelt in the backseat!" To which I thought, "Well, why wouldn´t I? Have you seen the drivers here?"
In Peru, the law states that anyone in the front seat, drivers and passengers, must be wearing seatbelts. For the back seat, however, there is no such law. Like most Americans, wearing a seatbelt is second nature to me. I get into the car, close the door and latch my seatbelt, without even thinking about it. Even in Peru, where I know it´s not the law, I wear my seatbelt.
Taxi and bus drivers try to evade this law by wearing tshirts with a "seatbelt" painted across the front. To the passing eye, this painted "seatbelt" passes the test for a real one. Since most buses in Lima are converted fifteen passenger vans or small company buses, there is usually a front passenger seat. The commuter sitting in that seat is obligated, by law, to wear a seatbelt. Yesterday, I sat behind the driver and had a clear view of the front passenger seat. A young girl about my age climbed into the front seat and pulled the seatbelt aross her chest. That´s where she left it. Hanging by her left hip. Without latching it in the fastner.
This puzzled me. I realized that this girl wasn´t "wearing" the seatbelt because she thought it was safe, she was "wearing" the seatbelt because she wanted to avoid a fine. I wondered, "If you are going to pull the belt across your body, why not go the extra 1.5 inches and actually fasten it? How much extra effort does that take?"
It´s baffling. I mentioned this story to Alvaro, when I said, "I always wear my seatbelt, even in the back!" he chuckled and said, "Yes, I have noticed."
Now in addition to my English speaking accent, blue eyes and short bob haircut, wearing my seatbelt screams: "Look at this gringa!!"
In Peru, the law states that anyone in the front seat, drivers and passengers, must be wearing seatbelts. For the back seat, however, there is no such law. Like most Americans, wearing a seatbelt is second nature to me. I get into the car, close the door and latch my seatbelt, without even thinking about it. Even in Peru, where I know it´s not the law, I wear my seatbelt.
Taxi and bus drivers try to evade this law by wearing tshirts with a "seatbelt" painted across the front. To the passing eye, this painted "seatbelt" passes the test for a real one. Since most buses in Lima are converted fifteen passenger vans or small company buses, there is usually a front passenger seat. The commuter sitting in that seat is obligated, by law, to wear a seatbelt. Yesterday, I sat behind the driver and had a clear view of the front passenger seat. A young girl about my age climbed into the front seat and pulled the seatbelt aross her chest. That´s where she left it. Hanging by her left hip. Without latching it in the fastner.
This puzzled me. I realized that this girl wasn´t "wearing" the seatbelt because she thought it was safe, she was "wearing" the seatbelt because she wanted to avoid a fine. I wondered, "If you are going to pull the belt across your body, why not go the extra 1.5 inches and actually fasten it? How much extra effort does that take?"
It´s baffling. I mentioned this story to Alvaro, when I said, "I always wear my seatbelt, even in the back!" he chuckled and said, "Yes, I have noticed."
Now in addition to my English speaking accent, blue eyes and short bob haircut, wearing my seatbelt screams: "Look at this gringa!!"
Zombie, zombie
Last week I was riding in a taxi when I heard the driver say, "Zoommbie, zoommbie."
Confused, I began thinking about possible context. Is he starting a conversation with me about zombies? Is a street vendor selling zombie paraphernalia? Is there a hoard of zombies heading this way?
All of the possible contexts were improbable, so I ignored the moment until he turned up the volume on the radio. Then I heard the Cranberries singing:
But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
In your head, in your head they are fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are crying...
In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie,
Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, dou, dou, dou, dou, dou...
Before this moment, I had never really listened to the lyrics of the song because quite frankly I find the "in your head, in your he-ehe-e-ad" part to be annoying. As I listened, I was surprised to find the lyrics of the song to be making references to war and its destruction. Then I thought, "What does this taxi driver think this song is about? A zombie attack? That couldn't be further from the truth."
It was a moment when I realized the importance of language in context. For this taxi driver, the only word he knew was "zombie" but that's barely the main importance of the song. I've had my fair share of language mishaps by understanding only a few words and not the context. Like when I heard Alvaro's family talking about church attendance in Spain and someone said, "yes, there are only four cats in there." Then I asked, "Four cats? Why are we talking about cats? I thought we were talking about people in church, right?"
Turns out "four cats" is a phrase for "not very many people". Oh yes, context is everything.
Confused, I began thinking about possible context. Is he starting a conversation with me about zombies? Is a street vendor selling zombie paraphernalia? Is there a hoard of zombies heading this way?
All of the possible contexts were improbable, so I ignored the moment until he turned up the volume on the radio. Then I heard the Cranberries singing:
But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
In your head, in your head they are fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are crying...
In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie,
Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, dou, dou, dou, dou, dou...
Before this moment, I had never really listened to the lyrics of the song because quite frankly I find the "in your head, in your he-ehe-e-ad" part to be annoying. As I listened, I was surprised to find the lyrics of the song to be making references to war and its destruction. Then I thought, "What does this taxi driver think this song is about? A zombie attack? That couldn't be further from the truth."
It was a moment when I realized the importance of language in context. For this taxi driver, the only word he knew was "zombie" but that's barely the main importance of the song. I've had my fair share of language mishaps by understanding only a few words and not the context. Like when I heard Alvaro's family talking about church attendance in Spain and someone said, "yes, there are only four cats in there." Then I asked, "Four cats? Why are we talking about cats? I thought we were talking about people in church, right?"
Turns out "four cats" is a phrase for "not very many people". Oh yes, context is everything.
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