Some of the most legendary and mythic Latin American travel stories involve motorcycles. Here’s mine.
I had borrowed Doug’s Suzuki 125 motorcycle and was trying to find my way to the central fruit market. Panama City is a maze of streets and freeways with traffic circles, lights and also uncontrolled intersections. Sometimes there are traffic police; they are mostly women and, according to Doug, they are not to be messed with. They enforce the law. He says they are incorruptible.
Panama City is full of trucks and cars and motorcycles and everyone seems to know where they are going and they would really like to get there before you. Drivers do give right of way, but don’t seem to have much patience for someone who is unsure and indecisive. I don’t blame them. I had a general idea of where to find the market and I knew a few places for orientation, but I was feeling very unsure and indecisive and my driving reflected that.
At one busy intersection, a traffic cop waved me over and told me to park the bike. She said I was driving with my headlight off, and she wanted to check if it worked. She showed me the section in her handbook that states motorcycles are required to have their headlights on at all times. (Doug says he’s been pulled over and told to turn his headlight off in the daytime, but that’s a different story.) The officer asked for my licence and passport; they seemed to pass inspection, then she wanted to see the insurance certificate. Unfortunately, I could not produce it. This was un problemo.
She called over her partner who spoke a little English and they deliberated what to do with me. I understood their dilemma; they suspected I didn’t have proper insurance and they didn’t think they could let a gringo, especially such an unsure and indecisive one go unpunished. The infraction is supposed to incur a fine. Again the officer had me read the section in her handbook where it states that failure to produce an insurance certificate carries a $50 fine. And where it also states that an uninsured vehicle must be impounded. At least that’s how I understood it, but my Spanish reading is not so strong. Then she mentioned tow truck, she knew that in English, and then I was sure I had understood.
I smiled and pleaded ignorance, asked if they couldn’t just let me off with a warning, this being my first time ever in Panama City, and I assured them that my friend would have the bike properly insured and registered, it had valid license plates after all. I promised them I would go straight home and would make sure to carry the papers in the future. “And what if you have an accident?” they asked? “I’ll contact my friend if it comes to that.” But they were not swayed, there was still “la multa” or “fine” that was called for.
So I pulled out my wallet and offered to pay the fine. That just made them very nervous and they quickly asked me to put my wallet away. “We don’t want any problems! I have two children and my partner has three.” The officer explained that there might be people around who would take a photo of money changing hands and that would put them in serious trouble with their superiors. Instead we worked out that I would place the fine payment in the helmet box. She went away and I laid the money in the box. She came back and looked in and wasnt happy. She said something about paper and then she said I should “doblar” it. I said, “doblar 50 dollares? 50 for you and 50 for her? That is mucho!” She seemed bemused and asked if I had a translator on my phone, she wanted to show me the English word for doblar. We checked and found that it means “to fold”, which is what she wanted me to do to the bills and the paper. Then we reviewed the pronunciation of “fold” and she practiced it several times, asking me to fold the bills in a paper, which I was happy to do. She was happy to take the folded paper from the box and pocket it. By this time we were both smiling and i was quite relieved.
As far as encounters with traffic cops go, or briberies for that matter, this one was most pleasant and congenial. I actually felt like asking to take a picture of them, but I figured that might not go over so well. They might misinterpret my intentions.
Before sending me on my way, she asked me where I was headed. I explained I had been looking for the market, but was lost. She almost jumped in eagerness to give me directions. And she wanted to know where I was going to take the bike. “Back to Clayton,” I said. “My friend lives in Clayton and works at Unicef there.” She looked a little shocked. “Unicef?” Then she thought for awhile and said twice, “We don’t want any problems with Unicef.” I assured her I had no intention of making problens for her and she seemed reassured. Then blew her whistle and stopped the traffic for me and waved me into the street and on my way.
Later Doug explained that UN personnel have a quasi diplomatic status and that, while they may get warnings, they rarely get fined; the police are wary of their status. Perhaps, if I had mentioned my Unicef connections earlier, I might have saved myself the $50. I don’t begrudge them the money, and am happy for the experience. And maybe it was interesting for them too — it’s probably not every day that they meet culprits like me, friendly and compliant and eager to pay them fifty dollars. And it’s probably better to pay them directly than to pay the civic bureaucracy. The money will likely go to support their families. But so much for their incorruptility.
I made my way to the massive produce market and found papaya, guavas and pineapple. Then I made my way home. Along the way, I encountered several traffic cops and I did my best to look very purposeful and decisive. It worked.