Where the Streets Have No Name

There are a lot of things to love about Panama City. You can go hang out by the pool in February. The watermelon is out of this world. The people here are very friendly, and despite a sometimes turbulent history between the United States and Panama, have an incredible capacity for not blaming individual citizens for the actions of their government. Also, the view of the city skyline over the water is pretty spectacular. There is just one problem: transportation.

This is not a city for pedestrians. Yes, technically, the six-lane highway has a crosswalk painted across it. But I think that's more so that the ambulances will know where to find all the squished people, because it definitely doesn't make the cars stop. The smaller streets aren't much better. Though there are sidewalks, they're mostly filled with parked cars and food carts, so you end up walking in the street, waiting for death by Hyundai. Crossing at an intersection is a bit like playing Pac Man, when you realize all the ghosts are about to converge on your position. You find yourself saying, "I think I'll bolt in front of the Skoda. That would be less likely to kill me than getting hit from behind by the Isuzu truck."

And it's just as well, because even if you wanted to take the risk and walk, you wouldn't be able to find your way. Because the streets have no names. Or rather, some of them have names, or more than one name, but most don't have any signs to indicate what these names are. And even when there are signs, you still probably won't understand where you are. (I'm convinced that this is because Panama has no door-to-door mail service.) For example, Calle Uruguay, also known as Calle 48, intersects with Avenida 5 a B Sur, which is not to be confused with Avenida 5 a Sur, which is a block away and also intersects with Calle Uruguay (or Calle 48). At some point Calle Uruguay ceases to be Calle 48, and another road becomes Calle 48. There's also a Calle 50, and no matter where I am, I'm never far from Calle 50, leading me to believe that this road is in fact a spiral that covers the entire city. Calle 50 also has about 20 different names, depending on what part of Calle 50 you're on. Of course, my understanding of this system is so poor that all of this could be wrong, and I'd have no idea.

Clearly, public transport seems like the way to go. No. It is not. The option here is buses, which are ominously called the Diablos Rojos (or red devils). I think the scary name says it all. I have been told to avoid them.

So how does one get around? Taxis. And it is very possible to find good taxistas. I have found two, and they're awesome. (If you're in Panama City, and need a taxi recommendation, let me know). I won't mention their names on here, because I haven't asked their permission, but they are reliable and very helpful. One even lent me a phone for a week after the mugging. The problem comes when your normal taxi drivers aren't available, and you're forced to call a company. Though there's often not much point in calling, because they'll tell you they don't have any cabs to send you. So you hail a random one outside. At which point the bargaining process begins.

(Translated)
"I am going to the corner of Calle X and Avenida X. How much will that be?"
"How much do you usually pay?"
"Normally, I pay five."
"At this hour, it will be seven."
"I leave at this hour every day and I pay five."
"It's five with no traffic, seven with traffic."
"That's OK, I'll wait for another cab."
"Six."
"Ok, fine."

This is one of the more extreme examples, but it gives you an idea of this works. Then you get to join the ranks of all the crazy drivers here. Picture Manhattan, on amphetamines. How crazy the drivers are depends on the car. In the words of one of my regular cab drivers, "There are things that yellow cars can do, which other cars cannot." Commuting in Panama is a bit like going on Space Mountain. Turn signals are not widely used in Panama City. Red lights are more of a suggestion. Driving 50 miles an hour and breaking two inches before the car in front of you is just how you stop. Honking can mean a) Hi! b) My cab is unoccupied; or c) #@$& you! And you get to learn all this in the backseat, where they've likely upholstered over the seatbelts clasps. I should point out now that both my usual taxi drivers are very responsible and none of this applies to them; they're great. (One of them generously got me some watermelon on the way home from work today, which if you know how grumbly I get when I haven't eaten in hours, definitely counts as a safety precaution.)

So most of the time getting around Panama City is a hassle. I invest a fair amount of time every week playing Frogger with the traffic, wandering around lost like a half-concussed puppy, and speeding through the streets with my eyes covered. But there is an upside. When I commute by Metro at home, my goal is basically to ignore everyone around me. During rush hour, I put in my headphones and pretend that my face isn't smushed into someone's arm pit, that the woman in front of me didn't marinade herself in perfume, that the man who just took a flying leap into the train car didn't elbow me in the kidney. By contrast, when you're in stuck in a traffic jam in a taxi for 40 minutes, you actually talk. And I'm learning a lot on my cab rides. Including a bit of slang and Panamanian politics. And no one is elbowing me in the kidney. It's pretty peaceful, even if you are running the red lights.