I’m not sure if it’s the case in other countries, but taxi cab drivers in Latin America are the travel agents, tour guides and translators, and, if you let them, your real estate agent as well. Greer and I had our first experience with the "taxitourlator" on our first visit to South America, 17 years ago. We had planned a Machu Picchu vacation to Peru in the days before extensive online services. I relied on telephone service and my broken Spanish to reserve a hotel upon our arrival. Or at least I thought I did…
We hailed a taxi at the airport with the address of our hotel in hand. The English-speaking driver whisked us away to our destination, or so we thought. Willing to let him do the walking and the talking for us, he went in to confirm our reservation, and upon his return…”lo siento, señor y señora, but there is no reservation or vacancy here.” The same went for the next attempt, yet the third time was the charm (and the one that paid him a commission?) and we unloaded our bags, as the accommodations were more than adequate. He was also the same person who secured us a great deal on our hiking trip along the Incan Trail to Machu Picchu, and obtained a refund when the promised train ride home was not delivered. This foreshadowed our Ecuadorian (and subsequent) Peruvian adventure.
When does no not mean no? I can’t blame it on translation because no means the same thing in English and Spanish… N-O spells no! And especially when the taxi driver speaks perfect English. However, in Peru, maybe no has a different translation.
Our ten-day excursion to Peru, encompassing Cusco, Machu Picchu, Aeroquipa, and Lake Titicaca, included an obligatory connection in Lima. For us that meant an eight-hour lay over. Never one to miss an opportunity to explore a new place, Greer surmised that we could catch a cab into the historic colonial Plaza Armas, play tourist, grab lunch, and catch a taxi back in plenty of time for our connecting flight. Total cost about forty bucks for the round-trip taxi ride. Enter Taxi Driver…you talking to me? Apparently I wasn’t.
Given our limited time, we had already mapped out our mission, but said Taxi Driver had another mission (no, not a vigilante crusade to root out gringo tourists). For an additional 20 bucks, he would take us on a tour of Lima and get us back in plenty of time for our connecting flight. Greer and I discussed his offer and graciously declined. But apparently it was an offer we couldn’t refuse, even though we did. Given the fact that we had no knowledge of Lima or its surroundings, we were at his mercy (and fortunately for us, he was merciful) as he drove us to a scenic oceanic view, a side of Lima we would never have seen. Still thinking we were en route to the plaza, and that this was just a slight detour along the way to our original destination, we took full advantage. It was a grey, overcast day but the crashing waves along the Peruvian coast, against the jagged rocks, smoothed over and illuminated any dismal forecasts.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. Of course we were, he’d taken us hostage and deprived us of food after our hours long flight. And of course he knew just where we could get the most authentic, best tasting meal in all of Lima (and the best commission, too?). We landed in a costal village where it was difficult to differentiate one makeshift canvas food kiosk from the other. It was certainly authentic, but given that we had no other options, we could not determine if it was the best. However, the scene by the pier of people feeding seagulls and fishermen coming in with their catch did give a sense of calm and appreciation. But by now we certainly knew that there was no turning back, and the thoughts of a leisurely stroll on the Plaza de Armas, or an afternoon chillaxing over a grande Starbucks bold roast of the day were passing us by… or were they.
To understand my addiction to Starbucks is to understand my addiction. As one fellow “friend of Bill” noted, I exchanged my addiction (affliction) for cold, dark brewed beer with one for hot, dark roast coffee. And though Starbucks may be much maligned for its pretentiousness and over-priced mocha-lite, Frappuccino, two-pump, chai soy cappuccino venti grande lattes, its cup o’ joe is reasonably priced and spot on in delivering a hearty blend, across seven continents (or at least two in my case). And after six months of suffering through Nescafé and its even less suitable imposters posing as coffee, I welcomed the sight of a Peruvian Starbucks almost as much as the sight of Machu Picchu. I was not disappointed (by Machu Picchu or Starbucks) as our trusted Taxi Driver dutifully delivered us to our caffeine nirvana. And, before our four-hour tour (one more hour than the planned three-hour tour of the ill-fatted S.S. Minnow of Gilligan’s Island fame) was up, we finally made a stop to our original destination, the Plaza de Armas.
We arrived at the airport $60 lighter (Taxi Driver may have expected a larger tip, but I accepted his offer that I did refused, but literally couldn’t) yet much more enriched. As I wrote in my original journal … we really got a 4 hour tour of the city that we wouldn’t have gotten otherwise – that included scenic ocean views, downtown vistas, the Plaza Armas, good, authentic food, and plenty of Starbucks. What more could you ask for? Not much. I even got another lesson in patience, acceptance and tolerance. And the story bounds with metaphors and clichés to ‘go with the flow,’ and the joy is in the journey, or that we don’t know where our path will lead us. It also shows that we don’t always know what we want. Fortunately, there always seems to a taxi driver around to show what that may be. That was definitely the case with Yardo.
We hailed a taxi from our hotel in Guayaquil, Ecuador’s largest city and gateway to the coast, to take us the five to ten minutes ($2-3) to the bus terminal for our two hours bus ride ($10 total) to our beach destination. Yardo would hear none of that (I guess he had gotten advanced notice from Peruvian Taxi Driver). For a mere twenty dollars, he would provide door to shore service to our desired destination. Having experienced Taxi Driver, we knew it was futile to resist and we acquiesced.
Yardo, probably in his mid-thirties, smooth-talking, and with boyishly good looks, had spent his formative teen years in the United States. Whether it was an immigration issue or a chance to employ a lucrative import business (or both?) that led to his return to Ecuador, is unclear. Whatever the case, he was quick to inform us that the taxi gig was temporary until he could revive his imports of high-end motorcycles. It had suffered a serious setback under the socialist policies of President Rafael Correa. High tariffs on imports deeply cut into his profits and suddenly the market for high end motorcycles plummeted. His loss was our gain – or at least our ride to la costa, and perhaps a real estate opportunity.
Our costal destination just happened to be Yardo’s hometown. It was also where his mother was a real estate attorney. A beach house to Greer is like a microphone to Kanye… and the wheels started turning. But before we could shop for our shore house we had to take in the sights. And of course, indulge in the best seafood on the entire coast. And on that one accord, Yardo was certainly right. The rustic beachfront shacks may have had the view, yet it lacked the ambiance. But what was missing in atmosphere, it made up in culinary cuisine and delivered the best ceviche and seafood in all of Ecuador.
Not wanting to spend our limited beach time vacation home shopping, we did take an obligatory tour of the surrounding neighborhoods and available beach houses (and it’s just like the Jersey shore, only on the Pacific Ocean, and about 3000 miles away, but – given Jersey shore traffic - about the same time getting there, but about a tenth of the price). Yet, despite dining with Yardo and meeting mom, we did not close on our dream beach house that trip. But, Yardo and mom did play travel agent and arranged a boat ride the following day.
And playing travel agent is what these guys do best, as was our Galapagos taxi driver Pescado (which is “fish” in Spanish and he was probably a little fishy, if not well meaning). Not only did he provide our round trip ride to the airport, he was a tour guide with a hands on approach (although I am certain some of that hands violated ecotourism guidelines and procedures). Where as travel and expenses in Ecuador itself are very reasonable, the Galapagos are literally and figurative islands unto themselves. Trip Advisor puts a “budget” 7-day cruise at $2400, high-end close to $5000. Even a land-based tour topped $2000, and for us, everything is times four. Needless to say, being the budget travellers that we are, we plotted our own adventure and Pescado entered right into our plans. He offered our own private tour for our family of four for the same price it would cost for just one of us had we gone with the local travel agencies. True, there would be no English translation, but this was a good chance for all of us to practice our Spanish.
True to form, we crossed paths with group tours as they were herded like cattle – or better yet, like the slow-moving, ageless 150-year-old tortoises. As for us, we had a whirlwind highland adventure tour where Pescado gave us a personalized adventure – lava tunnels, tortoises and craters. We were able to get up close and personal with the tortoises feeding them native fruits. And we found out not only how old they were, but how heavy, too; they were over several hundred pounds as we used them as a dead lift – this to make up for my lack of weight training during our trip. I am certain that this was prohibited by the standard tour guide code of honor or Hippocratic oath, but perhaps it could spawn a whole new trend…eco/exercise tourism.
Like a Shakespearean play where the fool is often the wise man, for us, the Taxi Driver would take us to places of our dreams and desires unbeknownst to us. In fact, they would give me new meaning, insight and understanding. As we ventured through the lava tunnel – thinking we’d see soon the light, yet only to be foiled at the next turn. I saw that life is about getting through the tough parts to see - literally and figuratively – the light at the end of the tunnel. And that pretty much summed up our year, lots of dark turns, but eventually a bright future ahead, if only I remained patient, accepting and tolerant.
We hailed a taxi at the airport with the address of our hotel in hand. The English-speaking driver whisked us away to our destination, or so we thought. Willing to let him do the walking and the talking for us, he went in to confirm our reservation, and upon his return…”lo siento, señor y señora, but there is no reservation or vacancy here.” The same went for the next attempt, yet the third time was the charm (and the one that paid him a commission?) and we unloaded our bags, as the accommodations were more than adequate. He was also the same person who secured us a great deal on our hiking trip along the Incan Trail to Machu Picchu, and obtained a refund when the promised train ride home was not delivered. This foreshadowed our Ecuadorian (and subsequent) Peruvian adventure.
When does no not mean no? I can’t blame it on translation because no means the same thing in English and Spanish… N-O spells no! And especially when the taxi driver speaks perfect English. However, in Peru, maybe no has a different translation.
Our ten-day excursion to Peru, encompassing Cusco, Machu Picchu, Aeroquipa, and Lake Titicaca, included an obligatory connection in Lima. For us that meant an eight-hour lay over. Never one to miss an opportunity to explore a new place, Greer surmised that we could catch a cab into the historic colonial Plaza Armas, play tourist, grab lunch, and catch a taxi back in plenty of time for our connecting flight. Total cost about forty bucks for the round-trip taxi ride. Enter Taxi Driver…you talking to me? Apparently I wasn’t.
Given our limited time, we had already mapped out our mission, but said Taxi Driver had another mission (no, not a vigilante crusade to root out gringo tourists). For an additional 20 bucks, he would take us on a tour of Lima and get us back in plenty of time for our connecting flight. Greer and I discussed his offer and graciously declined. But apparently it was an offer we couldn’t refuse, even though we did. Given the fact that we had no knowledge of Lima or its surroundings, we were at his mercy (and fortunately for us, he was merciful) as he drove us to a scenic oceanic view, a side of Lima we would never have seen. Still thinking we were en route to the plaza, and that this was just a slight detour along the way to our original destination, we took full advantage. It was a grey, overcast day but the crashing waves along the Peruvian coast, against the jagged rocks, smoothed over and illuminated any dismal forecasts.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. Of course we were, he’d taken us hostage and deprived us of food after our hours long flight. And of course he knew just where we could get the most authentic, best tasting meal in all of Lima (and the best commission, too?). We landed in a costal village where it was difficult to differentiate one makeshift canvas food kiosk from the other. It was certainly authentic, but given that we had no other options, we could not determine if it was the best. However, the scene by the pier of people feeding seagulls and fishermen coming in with their catch did give a sense of calm and appreciation. But by now we certainly knew that there was no turning back, and the thoughts of a leisurely stroll on the Plaza de Armas, or an afternoon chillaxing over a grande Starbucks bold roast of the day were passing us by… or were they.
To understand my addiction to Starbucks is to understand my addiction. As one fellow “friend of Bill” noted, I exchanged my addiction (affliction) for cold, dark brewed beer with one for hot, dark roast coffee. And though Starbucks may be much maligned for its pretentiousness and over-priced mocha-lite, Frappuccino, two-pump, chai soy cappuccino venti grande lattes, its cup o’ joe is reasonably priced and spot on in delivering a hearty blend, across seven continents (or at least two in my case). And after six months of suffering through Nescafé and its even less suitable imposters posing as coffee, I welcomed the sight of a Peruvian Starbucks almost as much as the sight of Machu Picchu. I was not disappointed (by Machu Picchu or Starbucks) as our trusted Taxi Driver dutifully delivered us to our caffeine nirvana. And, before our four-hour tour (one more hour than the planned three-hour tour of the ill-fatted S.S. Minnow of Gilligan’s Island fame) was up, we finally made a stop to our original destination, the Plaza de Armas.
We arrived at the airport $60 lighter (Taxi Driver may have expected a larger tip, but I accepted his offer that I did refused, but literally couldn’t) yet much more enriched. As I wrote in my original journal … we really got a 4 hour tour of the city that we wouldn’t have gotten otherwise – that included scenic ocean views, downtown vistas, the Plaza Armas, good, authentic food, and plenty of Starbucks. What more could you ask for? Not much. I even got another lesson in patience, acceptance and tolerance. And the story bounds with metaphors and clichés to ‘go with the flow,’ and the joy is in the journey, or that we don’t know where our path will lead us. It also shows that we don’t always know what we want. Fortunately, there always seems to a taxi driver around to show what that may be. That was definitely the case with Yardo.
We hailed a taxi from our hotel in Guayaquil, Ecuador’s largest city and gateway to the coast, to take us the five to ten minutes ($2-3) to the bus terminal for our two hours bus ride ($10 total) to our beach destination. Yardo would hear none of that (I guess he had gotten advanced notice from Peruvian Taxi Driver). For a mere twenty dollars, he would provide door to shore service to our desired destination. Having experienced Taxi Driver, we knew it was futile to resist and we acquiesced.
Yardo, probably in his mid-thirties, smooth-talking, and with boyishly good looks, had spent his formative teen years in the United States. Whether it was an immigration issue or a chance to employ a lucrative import business (or both?) that led to his return to Ecuador, is unclear. Whatever the case, he was quick to inform us that the taxi gig was temporary until he could revive his imports of high-end motorcycles. It had suffered a serious setback under the socialist policies of President Rafael Correa. High tariffs on imports deeply cut into his profits and suddenly the market for high end motorcycles plummeted. His loss was our gain – or at least our ride to la costa, and perhaps a real estate opportunity.
Our costal destination just happened to be Yardo’s hometown. It was also where his mother was a real estate attorney. A beach house to Greer is like a microphone to Kanye… and the wheels started turning. But before we could shop for our shore house we had to take in the sights. And of course, indulge in the best seafood on the entire coast. And on that one accord, Yardo was certainly right. The rustic beachfront shacks may have had the view, yet it lacked the ambiance. But what was missing in atmosphere, it made up in culinary cuisine and delivered the best ceviche and seafood in all of Ecuador.
Not wanting to spend our limited beach time vacation home shopping, we did take an obligatory tour of the surrounding neighborhoods and available beach houses (and it’s just like the Jersey shore, only on the Pacific Ocean, and about 3000 miles away, but – given Jersey shore traffic - about the same time getting there, but about a tenth of the price). Yet, despite dining with Yardo and meeting mom, we did not close on our dream beach house that trip. But, Yardo and mom did play travel agent and arranged a boat ride the following day.
And playing travel agent is what these guys do best, as was our Galapagos taxi driver Pescado (which is “fish” in Spanish and he was probably a little fishy, if not well meaning). Not only did he provide our round trip ride to the airport, he was a tour guide with a hands on approach (although I am certain some of that hands violated ecotourism guidelines and procedures). Where as travel and expenses in Ecuador itself are very reasonable, the Galapagos are literally and figurative islands unto themselves. Trip Advisor puts a “budget” 7-day cruise at $2400, high-end close to $5000. Even a land-based tour topped $2000, and for us, everything is times four. Needless to say, being the budget travellers that we are, we plotted our own adventure and Pescado entered right into our plans. He offered our own private tour for our family of four for the same price it would cost for just one of us had we gone with the local travel agencies. True, there would be no English translation, but this was a good chance for all of us to practice our Spanish.
True to form, we crossed paths with group tours as they were herded like cattle – or better yet, like the slow-moving, ageless 150-year-old tortoises. As for us, we had a whirlwind highland adventure tour where Pescado gave us a personalized adventure – lava tunnels, tortoises and craters. We were able to get up close and personal with the tortoises feeding them native fruits. And we found out not only how old they were, but how heavy, too; they were over several hundred pounds as we used them as a dead lift – this to make up for my lack of weight training during our trip. I am certain that this was prohibited by the standard tour guide code of honor or Hippocratic oath, but perhaps it could spawn a whole new trend…eco/exercise tourism.
Like a Shakespearean play where the fool is often the wise man, for us, the Taxi Driver would take us to places of our dreams and desires unbeknownst to us. In fact, they would give me new meaning, insight and understanding. As we ventured through the lava tunnel – thinking we’d see soon the light, yet only to be foiled at the next turn. I saw that life is about getting through the tough parts to see - literally and figuratively – the light at the end of the tunnel. And that pretty much summed up our year, lots of dark turns, but eventually a bright future ahead, if only I remained patient, accepting and tolerant.