senorsuitcase
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- Aug 11, 2010
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“In Buenos Aires, nothing is said to be certain except death and taxis.”
The words of Benjamin Franklin – almost.
Take note Alton Towers – you are being severely undercut by your Latin American cousins. For in Buenos Aires you can ride a rollercoaster every day for less than it would cost to buy a keyring in the Oblivion gift shop. But there is a key difference. Rollercoasters have rails. And seatbelts. Taxis here sometimes don’t even have seats.
If I say that taxi drivers here drive at 100 miles an hour, I am of course exaggerating. By about 3 miles an hour. If I say that they drive within 1 centimetre of other cars at all times, I am also exaggerating. By about a millimetre. At one point last night, we drove so close to the taxi in front that I almost felt obliged to pay a portion of their fare.
Anyway, last night’s journey downtown was another one for the folder marked “Bruce Willis”. But with a comic twist. Think Die Hard meets Look Who’s Talking. We were being pinballed back and forth across 14 lanes of traffic by a driver who’d just graduated from the Grand Theft Auto School of Motoring, when it became apparent that he was playing cat and mouse with an equally “loco” motorcyclist. Now, driving within a centimetre of other cars out here comes with some obvious risks but at least it is a level playing field (bar the occasional pothole). Driving within a centimetre of a motorcycle, on the other hand, carries with it all manner of grim possibilities.
But the Argentinean Evel Knievel gave as good as he got. Our driver (Kenny Powers) would cut across his path (with liberal horn use and crazy shouting), the motorcyclist would then return the favour (with much threatening finger-wagging and hints of concealed passenger firearm). I didn’t really like where this was heading (not literally – for the restaurant Dada turned out to be excellent). After several ridiculous manoeuvres from both parties, we reached a set of traffic lights. The motorcyclist pulled right up alongside the driver’s window, which the driver lowered for a showdown. How would I explain to the local dry-cleaner that the splattered stains on my shirt were actually parts of a taxi driver’s brain?
However, the taxistas here know their position in the food chain all too well. The ensuing banter went something like this:-
Motorcycle: What are you doing? You’re f***ing crazy. Stick to your f***ing lane, a**hole.
Kenny Powers: <laughs wildly> I am sticking to my f***ing lane.
Motorcycle: Which f***ing lane is yours?
Kenny Powers: <laughs wildly>They’re all my f***ing lanes!! <laughs even more wildly, jams foot on accelerator.>
*passengers resume urgent fumbling for missing seatbelts*
With a final blast of the horn, deranged cackle, and one more swish of his magnificent mullet, we turned left across three lanes of traffic and hurtled towards the restaurant. GAME OVER.
Señor Suitcase
www.senorsuitcase.com
http://www.twitter.com/senorsuitcase
The words of Benjamin Franklin – almost.
Take note Alton Towers – you are being severely undercut by your Latin American cousins. For in Buenos Aires you can ride a rollercoaster every day for less than it would cost to buy a keyring in the Oblivion gift shop. But there is a key difference. Rollercoasters have rails. And seatbelts. Taxis here sometimes don’t even have seats.
If I say that taxi drivers here drive at 100 miles an hour, I am of course exaggerating. By about 3 miles an hour. If I say that they drive within 1 centimetre of other cars at all times, I am also exaggerating. By about a millimetre. At one point last night, we drove so close to the taxi in front that I almost felt obliged to pay a portion of their fare.
Anyway, last night’s journey downtown was another one for the folder marked “Bruce Willis”. But with a comic twist. Think Die Hard meets Look Who’s Talking. We were being pinballed back and forth across 14 lanes of traffic by a driver who’d just graduated from the Grand Theft Auto School of Motoring, when it became apparent that he was playing cat and mouse with an equally “loco” motorcyclist. Now, driving within a centimetre of other cars out here comes with some obvious risks but at least it is a level playing field (bar the occasional pothole). Driving within a centimetre of a motorcycle, on the other hand, carries with it all manner of grim possibilities.
But the Argentinean Evel Knievel gave as good as he got. Our driver (Kenny Powers) would cut across his path (with liberal horn use and crazy shouting), the motorcyclist would then return the favour (with much threatening finger-wagging and hints of concealed passenger firearm). I didn’t really like where this was heading (not literally – for the restaurant Dada turned out to be excellent). After several ridiculous manoeuvres from both parties, we reached a set of traffic lights. The motorcyclist pulled right up alongside the driver’s window, which the driver lowered for a showdown. How would I explain to the local dry-cleaner that the splattered stains on my shirt were actually parts of a taxi driver’s brain?
However, the taxistas here know their position in the food chain all too well. The ensuing banter went something like this:-
Motorcycle: What are you doing? You’re f***ing crazy. Stick to your f***ing lane, a**hole.
Kenny Powers: <laughs wildly> I am sticking to my f***ing lane.
Motorcycle: Which f***ing lane is yours?
Kenny Powers: <laughs wildly>They’re all my f***ing lanes!! <laughs even more wildly, jams foot on accelerator.>
*passengers resume urgent fumbling for missing seatbelts*
With a final blast of the horn, deranged cackle, and one more swish of his magnificent mullet, we turned left across three lanes of traffic and hurtled towards the restaurant. GAME OVER.
Señor Suitcase
www.senorsuitcase.com
http://www.twitter.com/senorsuitcase
