When I went to school in New Zealand, the options of languages were German or French. Spanish, however, being the most widely spoken language in the world, was not offered. Before our trip to Panama I don't think I had ever heard a whole sentence of Spanish spoken. We are now immersed in an entirely Spanish speaking country, where few people speak English.
We are managing to order food quite well, resorting to pointing where necessary. But for other things it is not so easy. Explaining to the laundry lady, for instance, that you require your laundry washed and dried, and ready for pick up the following morning, is much more difficult. Trying to get a taxi to take you somewhere, wait, then take you somewhere else is also pushing it, particularly when our pronunciation of place names if often sketchy.
Our last blog left us at Balboa Yacht Club after the news of our transit being brought forward to three days time. I harass a nearby cruiser for information on local marine stores, hoping to make a quick stop to pick up a few essentials before heading back to Colon. Extremely helpful, the cruiser gives us the information for the largest marine store in Panama. With the name of the store written down, we head for the nearest taxi and attempt to ask them to take us to the bus station, via the marine store. He tells us it will be $10. We agree, and get in. The taxi driver is still unhappy about something. He calls over a local who happens to speak English. The local asks us again where we want to go. We explain, and the local translates to the driver. The price instantly changes to $20. Disgruntled, but lacking time, we agree and head off to the marine store. Abernathy's is large, but is really a fishing store with a few parts for motor boats. We ask the assistants for a few things, but they speak only enough English to say "I don't speak English". Explaining you need a particular brand of fridge pump of a particular model number was impossible. After a good look around it was obvious that they didn't have the part anyway. We jump back in the taxi and head for the bus station.
The bus station is bustling with people, all rushing from place to place with heavy bags. We manage to find the counter that says Pamana City - Colon, but it is the only counter not manned and with no line. We wait around anyway and are rewarded after about 10 minutes when the teller arrives. "Dous por Colon espreso, seis P.M., por favor" I say, marvelling at my improving spanish. "You buy the tickets on the bus" he replies in perfect English, then points us the way.
There are only two seats left on the bus, and we take them. We have been told to stay on the bus until it gets to the Colon terminal, where there are always taxis that can take us from there back to Shelter Bay. The bus ride takes two hours before we begin to recognise where we are. We see the supermarket that we have visited, and the turn off to Shelter Bay. We consider getting off here, but decide to follow instructions and stay on until the terminal. It is now dark and the bus is taking us into the centre of Colon, a notoriously unsafe area for tourists. It is a Friday night and the place is packed. Loud music booms from bars and there are groups of mean looking youths at every corner. The bus stops at what must be the centre of town. We are told in no uncertain terms, that it is the end of the line and to get off the bus. We attempt to ask where the bus terminal is with all the taxis, but the driver is uninterested in conversing with us.
We exit the bus into the crowded street with our bags. In those bags are our new Apple computer, our kindle, and US$2,000 to pay our agent for the canal transit. Nervously, and holding our bags close to us, we make our way to the street corner so we can flag down a taxi. I am relieved when a yellow cab turns the corner and stops by us. "Shelter Bay?" I ask the driver, leaning towards his window. He shakes his head and drives on. Shit. We wait a couple of minutes, standing awkwardly on the side walk before another taxi arrives. But after asking for Shelter Bay, the taxi again drives off. This is repeated two more times. By this stage, our hearts have sunk to the gutter and we feel the eyes of all the youths on us as they appear to be moving closer and closer. Finally, the fifth taxi pulls up and nods when we ask him to take us to Shelter Bay. Relieved, we jump in without bothering to ask the cost.
He drives through the rough looking streets of central Colon - derelict buildings with rusty bars on the windows, people and washing crowding the barred verandahs, bags of rubbish spilled on the street. The windows of the taxi won't go up and we are exposed to the sights, sounds and smells of Colon without any barrier. When we hit traffic, we feel rather unsafe as people being to crowd the cars, talking to the drivers and passengers. Down a dark side street, the driver pulls into what looks like the bus terminal. This part of town looks even worse than where we were dropped, so we are somewhat glad to have got off where we did. A woman jumps into the front passenger's seat. "Hola" she says to us, and the driver explains to us in Spanish that this is his wife. They talk away happily and I feel a lot safer with her in the car. We are still in the centre of town and the traffic is stopped. Cars in front of us begin to turn around, and we see that there is a commotion ahead. Someone has started a fire in the middle of the street, and there is a large crowd of men throwing bottles. Our taxi turns around also and we slowly make our way back and around the area. "Police" on motorcycles speed past us towards the fire, with AK47's strapped to their sides.
Soon we are out of town, but the taxi driver is taking a different route to what we are used to. I look out the window for signs to find out where we are. We take a short cut over an empty lot where stray dogs are attacking a bag of rubbish. Thankfully, we soon cross over the canal and know where we are. The driver speeds down the peninsular towards the marina, barely missing pot holes and flying over bumps. But we make it to the marina safe, and are only charged $20 (a bargain compared to other rates we had been charged, but extortionate compared to the $1 that local's pay).
We hit the sack the second we get back on board and spend the next two days running around like headless chickens desperately trying to get through our to do list before our transit on Monday.
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