Con El Taxista

The ride is not smooth. When there is relief from the trancónes, traffic jams, the asphalt is still littered with potholes. In the back of the taxi, I am jarred both when a tire drops into a hole and when the driver makes erratic attempts to swerve around them. Outside my window, the plurality of big-city life goes on, just as frenetic as the drive.

Luxury cars vy for their spot in something like a lane. The drivers curse and honk. Dilapidated trucks lumber in front of them and belt out black exhaust. This is a wealthier part of Bogota, however the main thoroughfares still allow some equanimity to exist between the classes — if only while sitting in traffic. No one goes anywhere with ease.

In the median of a road erroneously (yet optimistically) dubbed “the highway”, a homeless man has strung up a hammock between a metal fence post and a concrete pylon. He lounges in it and sings what I imagine is a coastal tune, envisioning himself on a Carribean beach up north, the sounds of traffic replaced by imaginary waves lapping at an imaginary shore, the fence post and pylon becoming palm trees.

The taxista snickers a little as we move past. He eyes me against the rearview mirror.

 “Where are you coming from?” he asks in Spanish.

I thought my Spanish would be up to par by now, but my difficulty with getting back to fluency belies my age. A mental rigidity has crept up on me like an arthritis. It is true what they say: learning a language becomes harder as you get older. But I am only relearning, so I hang onto a stubbornness that I have given the false name of ‘hope.’ 

“I was just in Suesca,” I respond.

“No, no. What country are you from?”

“Oh. Sorry. I am United-Statesian.”

“American.”

“Yes, American.”

There is a silence that speaks volumes. He is weighing what follow-up questions to ask that I might understand. I am going through all the ways I could have responded better. The Spanish that lives in my head is both potentially alive and dead, a Schrodinger’s cat curled up in my brain’s left hemisphere.

“And you speak English?” he asks.

“More or less,” I joke. He doesn’t seem to get it.

We continue down through the traffic. There are many Venezuelans out, many with babies in their arms, walking through the bumber-to-bumber traffic and asking for colaboración. Not a “handout” not a “donation” but “collaboration” — as if in giving we are now also vested in the effort to end their nightmare. 

I notice that the taxista keeps eyeing me from the rearview mirror. I recall stories I have heard of people getting robbed by drivers. I have already announced that I am foreign — a weakness that could be taken advantage of. “Be wary,” I remind myself. 

There is a Colombian expression that applies now, one that I didn’t understand upon arrival: No des papaya. It literally means “Don’t give out papaya.” Figuratively, it means you shouldn’t put yourself in situations where you could be at risk. Perhaps my arthritic brain stumbled into a danger unawares.  

“Hey. Will you do me a favor?” he asks.

“That depends on the favor.” I imagine this is the setup. What could be next? Perhaps, “Give me all your money or I’ll drive you out to the fields.” Or, “I’m going to drive you somewhere else and then we’ll talk about the favor.” Have I already given the papaya for the taking?

He hands me his phone. 

“Could you write to my wife, in English?” he asks.

“Does she speak English?”

“She is studying it. She really likes it. I think she is pretty good. I don’t know though. I can’t speak it.”

The screen is ready for a new text message. It says “Mi Amor” on top.

“What do you want me to write?”

“A ver...Could you tell her this: Amor. Eres la mejor persona que conozco en mi vida. Me has apoyado en todas mis dificultades y quiero estar contigo para apoyarte. Me has dado toda la felicidad que tengo en mi vida y intentaré hacerte feliz también. Te amo, mi amor.”

I do my best with the translation, plugging in the sentences as the taxi continues to bump and rattle and swerve.

“How did it come out?” he asks.

“Well,” I say. “Would you like to hear how it sounds in English?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I would.”

“My love. You are the best person that I know in this life. You have supported me in all of my difficulties and I want to be with you to support you in yours. You’ve given me all the happiness in my life and I will try to make you happy as well. I love you, my love.”

I hand him back his phone, the English text still waiting to be sent.

“I love her very much,” he says. “Thank you.” 

He looks over the message, trusting that those foreign words convey everything that’s in his heart. He hits send just before we pull up to my stop.