Stereotypes abound of “violence” in Colombia, but fist-fighting a taxi driver on the side of the road wasn’t quite what I’d anticipated.
When asked about our travels, my husband and I have several exciting anecdotes we like to share, but one of the most ludicrous occurred the day we moved to Colombia from the US.
As if packing and moving weren’t challenging enough, we’d decided to add an international element. Cramming as many of our “essential” belongings as would fit into gargantuan suitcases, we set off for the airport headed to Cali, Colombia, my husband’s home city.
The trip was relatively uneventful, besides a shady airport hotel stay and an airport shuttle reservation that had me quoting Seinfeld.
“You see, you know how to *take* the reservation, you just don’t know how to *hold* the reservation. And that’s really, the most important part of the reservation: the holding. Anybody can just take them.” — Jerry Seinfeld
Nevertheless, after a grueling, nearly 24 hours of travel, we finally arrived, made it through customs, collected our hulking bags, and hauled them aboard a shuttle headed for the bus terminal in the city center.
From the terminal, we were only a quick 20-minute cab ride from our new home. Or so we’d thought before meeting the taxi driver from hell.
Despite our physical exhaustion, we were re-invigorated by the excitement of returning to the city where we’d first met. We excitedly anticipated finally arriving at our new home and the nap that would be our first order of business.
After reaching the terminal, once again gathered our cumbersome baggage from the bus, we patiently waited in line for a taxi. However, when we finally reached the front, we were passed over several times and, apparently, forgotten thanks to our excessive luggage.
Whereas in the US, you can’t spit without hitting a monstrous SUV or oversized pickup truck, cars in Colombia tend to be clown-car-small and lacking trunks. Therefore, most of the taxis, awaiting passengers, couldn’t accommodate our mountain of luggage.
Eventually, we grew impatient and decided to take a more proactive approach, flagging down the first large vehicle we spotted.
We’d only walked a few yards when we spotted a slightly larger taxi and waved him over. We piled our bags and ourselves into the vehicle and simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief, knowing we’d only need to haul the suitcases once more.
Traffic was barely moving in the city center. As we waited in the gridlock, the driver fiddled with his phone, putting on a fútbol (soccer) match to watch as we slowly and infrequently progressed.
This behavior isn’t unusual in Colombia. Although cell phone use while driving is illegal, the law isn’t well enforced. And with no consequences, many drivers haven’t yet realized the dangers.
My husband, however, is passionately anti-phone use while driving. A fact I was well aware of since we’d argued over it in the past. He’d informed me he preferred I not use the phone at all while driving, not even utilizing my car’s hands-free Bluetooth.
So, I knew, without needing to see his face, he was annoyed. However, he seemed to be making an exception since traffic was at a standstill, and he was too exhausted to complain.
However, upon finally escaping the gridlock, the driver continued watching the match on the phone in his hand. But now, he watched while also driving like an aggressive maniac.
He swerved in and out of lanes, cut off other drivers, and repeatedly slammed the brakes, barely avoiding collisions, in an apparent attempt to shave milliseconds off the route. All the while still attentively watching the match, even occasionally mumbling commentary on the plays!
At this point, even I was terrified, and my husband, sitting in the passenger seat, had had enough. He nudged the guys, saying something like, “Come on, man, the phone?” Hoping the driver would realize he had passengers and a job to do.
The driver grunted something that seemed like acknowledgment. However, he continued to drive like he was rushing a laboring woman to the hospital during the World Cup finals, unperturbed and completely ignoring the request.
After about 2 minutes, the driver still showed no sign he intended to turn off the game. So my husband told him, “Just pull over here.”
The perplexed driver responded, “What? Here”
My husband confirmed the request and explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t amused by or pleased with the dangerous, aggressive driving and wouldn’t be risking our lives one minute longer so this man wouldn’t miss a goal.
The driver angrily swerved toward the sidewalk and dramatically screeched to a stop.
From the back seat, I couldn’t hear the conversation well, but the stop alone put me on alert. I could sense tempers rising and prepared for a hasty exit, grabbing hold of as many bags as I could manage.
My husband tossed a bill of 10.000 pesos (approximately USD 2.50) to the driver, exited the taxi, and began hauling bags from the car.
As a frequent traveler, I’d heard horror stories of cab drivers pulling away quickly after a rider exits, robbing them of their possessions still in the vehicle. And this was all I could think of as I sat there, with literally everything we owned in this angry man’s car.
Removing the bags as quickly as possible, we tossed them in a pile on the sidewalk. As we were unloading, however, the man began yelling that my husband still owed him 2.000 pesos, the equivalent of 50 cents in US dollars.
My husband told the man he was crazy and should be grateful he’d paid him anything for the horrible ride, so intolerable we hadn’t even reached our destination. But the driver wasn’t backing down.
He exited the car and started grabbing our luggage, which I quickly snatched back from him, telling him to keep his hands off our belongings.
Turning his attention from the bags, the driver began shoving my husband, shouting at him to pay.
My husband faced the man calmly but firmly refusing. Though his face remained stoic to casual observers, as his wife, the rage building in his eyes was evident.
Naively, I stepped between the two men in a futile attempt to de-escalate the situation. I feared one more shove or, god forbid, a swing from the driver, and my husband’s tolerance would reach its breaking point. I also had no idea if this insane man had a weapon and really didn’t want to find out.
I shouted to my husband to, “Just grab the bags,” so we could escape the lunatic. While the driver, inches from my face, continued his ranting. I reiterated my husband’s point, telling him to be glad we paid him anything and asking if he seriously intended to assault a man for 2.000 pesos.
Apparently, he did.
Both men, completely ignoring me and my commands, continued arguing around me. The driver somehow managed to circumvent me (I would’ve made a terrible defensive lineman) and threw a punch at my husband, landing on his upper jaw. My husband countered, landing several punches to the man’s face and head.
I stood for a moment in utter shock, unable to believe what was happening, but knowing I was incapable of just standing by as this man attacked my husband. I needed to stop them. I needed a plan. As they continued sparring, I couldn’t imagine the altercation ending without one of them lying, incapacitated on the sidewalk.
I’m not exactly a delicate flower, so I decided I was willing to take a punch if it meant ending the fight. Yet again, I put myself between the two men and desperately hoped the driver wouldn’t hit a woman.
My ill-conceived plan failed miserably when the driver’s haphazard attempt to strike my husband landed on the side of my head instead. Now it was my turn to unleash on him, hitting him several times in the side of the head. Still, he wouldn’t relent. He continued lunging after my husband, ignoring my blows completely.
Realizing my efforts were utterly ineffective in ending the brawl, I began running up and down the street, desperately begging strangers to call the police. I attempted to explain the situation rapidly in panicked, broken Spanish to the few people I encountered, all of whom either didn’t understand or weren’t willing to get involved.
Finally, I stepped into the street, waving frantically at passing cars for help and hoping to spot a passing police vehicle.
As two vehicles stopped simultaneously, I wondered if I’d made the right decision since one was another taxi.
The men approached and quickly accomplished what I’d been unable to, separating my husband and the driver. They then listened, getting the gist of the incident from the cab driver’s shouted ranting of his version of events.
My husband then corrected the man’s account, including several relevant facts omitted by the driver, such as why we’d asked to be dropped there in the first place, how much he had already been paid, and who’d taken the first swing.
Commiserating with my husband, the other men talked the livid taxi driver back into his car without his additional pesos but finally willing to admit defeat and go.
The final straw for the driver seemed to be during his rant when he thrust the $10.000 bill forward dramatically, and I made a grab, attempting to snatch it away but missing it by a hair. This finally seemed to illustrate our original point that he should be grateful he received any payment for the horrendous death ride and move on with his life.
To this day, I wonder if he thought punching my husband would’ve convinced him to hand over the extra $2.000 or what? And, if I had offered it to him, what was the likelihood he actually would have stopped?
As the awful man sped off, the other men helped gather our bags and made apologies for the experience on behalf of all Colombians. They thoughtfully pleaded with me not to let the interaction mar my perception of Colombia and its people.
I assured them I had plenty of experience in the country and had never experienced anything like this before. I assured them I wouldn’t let one crazy cabby alter my perceptions of Colombians as kind, caring, and welcoming.
The man who’d come to our rescue in his own taxi safely delivered us the rest of the way home, and received a very nice tip for all his help and kindness.
As my husband and I entered our new home, scratched, bruised, and in shock, we couldn’t help laughing uncontrollably at our unusual welcome and how we’d surely remember and retell the outrageous story for decades.
BLEW WRITING LLC 