blog entry

Extreme Taxi

My taxi was late -- 40 minutes late -- and the Lima traffic was only getting worse. The whole city is under construction, literally. There is a new bridge underway that will climb above most of the city, in an effort ot reduce congestion on the roads. I thought Erick (the family friend who hosted me for the past two days) was exaggerating. "You need at LEAST an hour to get to the airport to catch your flight at 9:30 p.m., you should leave by 6:15, the latest," he warned me. Well, at 6:50, the cab bumped to the curb in front of Ericks aparment in the San Borja section of the city. At 8 p.m. I was standing in a line at the check-in counter for TACA that had not moved in 10, then 15 minutes. I was ready. I am becoming accustomed to these mishaps. The whole near-death taxi ride, flying through bumper-to-bumper intersections in disarray, I mentally prepared to miss my flight. I had a feeling it was not going to happen. Sure enough, upon approaching the TACA desk and insisting that I did indeed speak Spanish, I was told there were no more seats on my plane. I was momentarily thrown off, "But ... I have my seat number ... right here," I told him. No matter. They had overbooked and I would be compensated: a room at the Sheraton with breakfast, lunch and dinner comped. Plus, provided transportation to and from the airport and a $200 voucher for any flight with TACA in the future... I had no plans for the next day in Santiago. In fact, I would have preferred to arrive the next day with the rest of the volunteers from my program, and have my transportation and lodging already taken care of... I tried to put on a show -- the gracious, yet inconvenienced American -- meanwhile I'm thinking ... Hell yeaaaayah!

I am personally put in a taxi by the TACA Airlines representative with two other Chilean boys who have just hiked Machu Pichu for their winter vacation (why does everyone my age feel the need to climb that thing??? The bus ride up the mountain is oh so nice...). I feel like I know Lima better than they. I have stopped in this airport about six times now in the past year. They keep gasping as the taxi avoids imminent death time and time again. "Extreme taxi!" they shout smiling. They have noooo idea...
Sitting in the taxi enroute to the airport earlier I got to thinking, and I have had some of my most interesting conversations in South America, sitting in the back seats of taxi's. Just earlier that day, I had set off to meet Carlos (from Ayacucho) who was in Lima on business, to retrieve something I had mistakenly left at his house, and I heard the most fascinating life-story...

This man asked where I was from (if I had a dollar for every time I was asked that question each day ... I'd be staying at the Sheraton in every city), when I told him the U.S., he seemed to know the States very well. Turns out he had lived there for 10 years -- Washington, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee and of course, Florida -- before he was deported. "Finally... material for my next blog," I thought to myself.
It had taken him seven months to get to the U.S.. He had taken the long route -- the illegal one -- passing though almost every country in South America before landing on "free soil." He began work in construction. "Good money," he told me. "I used to make $18 an hour ... now, taxi," he said with a resigned laugh. "15 soles a day (an hour...I can't be sure) -- $5" he said. He had built hospitals, prisons and was responsible for the drywall in Gloria Esteban's house. (Sidenote: apparently her husband Emilio is quite kind.) He had also worked on a house with 20 bedrooms -- "a palace!" he exclaimed, of a basketball player for a Miami team. He married in '95 to a Puertoriquena who was nuts and that lasted six months. But he was dating another Puertoriquena from New Jersey when he was suddenly deported one day.
There had been warning -- years back he'd been walking out of the grocery store when an officer asked for his papers in English. "No hablo Ingles," he had answered. The officer then flippantly began chastizing him in Spanish. "He was from my country!" the driver told me, "and he was asking me in Spanish how the hell I got into HIS country." He was given a court order and petrified, never showed. Years later, exiting a nightclub in Miami, he was taken straight to jail for two weeks -- he had a warrant out for his arrest. Leaving jail, they led him straight to waiting immigration officers who sent him directly on a flight back to Lima. He arrived at his mother's house without a single posession and stayed in bed for three months depressed.
So THAT'S how it happens ... I thought. I had no idea. I have no way to say who's right or wrong, but I have learned that life isn't like that. It's not black and white -- always grey. The law is the law and there's always reasons for it. But how insightful to actually listen to someone's story. I've heard many racist remarks in the U.S., without regard to where I was living at the time, but it's so hard to keep a closed mind after listening first-hand to unlikely stories from the backseat of a taxi in South America. I read a quote recently, "Traveling is fatal to bigotry and prejudice." It's so true, at least if you keep an open heart and are willing to meet and listen to people from the countries you're visiting. On this trip I've discovered that I so prefer meeting the locals in a city and spending time hearing about their lives, than I do meeting fellow backpackers in hostals just passing on through. In hostals it's always the same, "Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going and for how long?" And from then on it's just a contest to see who has been more places and has traveled the longest. But really, what's the point of all that traveling if you didn't take the time to meet the people who make each place unique? I'm so nervous but thrilled to actually LIVE in a small town in Chile for four months with a family and students, rather than sightsee and come away with photos, but no real grasp of what the country is all about and the stories of it's people. That's why I try to blog about the people I've met here, more than my day-to-day activities. I am inspired by stories and those are the things I want to share the most.

That being said, I still want to convey my jubilee at entering my giant hotel room with a balcony overlooking Lima and throwing myself on my very own king size bed (the two Chileans had to share one, another very funny conversation). This morning I had french toast for the first (and probably the last) time since leaving the U.S. and I indulged in some lazy t.v. time this morning after being without it for weeks. Yesterday I was devastated because I discovered that my laptop I left with Erick in Lima -- which had been acting strange last month -- is officially broken. It looks pretty serious, and it also means an i-pod is not in the near future (I soooooooo miss my music), however, I think I may go amble into the stately dining room in a minute for my third free meal. It will invariably be a buffet (like the last two) ... I.Love.Buffets. Not bad, not bad at all.