The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

taxis

How to take taxis in Mexico City, without getting ripped off

by

I don’t have a car, so I take cabs in Mexico City at least once every two days. I’ve been pretty happy with the cabs here, but a small number of drivers have tried to cheat me, usually by giving me an inflated fare. Yesterday for the first time, a driver gave me the wrong change and then laughed when I told him he owed me 10 pesos. “I can’t give you 10 pesos because I don’t have it,” he said. “Sorry.”

This galled me. Sorry, I don’t have it? What was I supposed to do with that?

This morning I woke up before the sun came up and started thinking about all the things I’ve learned about taking cabs here over the past 2 1/2 years: always ask whether there’s a meter, pay attention to the route, carry small bills. I thought this might be interesting to other people, too, particularly people who live here or visit frequently.

I’m not complaining about Mexico City cab fares being too high, by the way. Taxis in Mexico City are much cheaper than what you’d pay in the States, and in fact I think rates in Mexico City are too low for the amount of time the drivers spend on the road.

But in the interest of ensuring that consumers get a fair rate — and in making sure they’re conscientious riders — here’s my advice on taking taxis in Mexico City.
…

Read More

The bravery of an American woman

by

Another Guadalajara cabbie and I struck up a conversation yesterday, while I was on my way to the book fair from an art musuem in Zapopan.

He’d asked where I was from — “Espana?” he guessed — and we chit-chatted about the differences between Guadalajara and Mexico City. I mentioned that I’d moved to Mexico for my husband’s job, and the cabbie, who looked no older than 30, asked how my husband was enjoying Guadalajara.

“Oh, he’s not here,” I said. “I came by myself.”

He looked surprised.

“Why didn’t he come?”

“Because he had to work.”

“So you’re here completely by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

(Me, wondering whether I should continue further, lest he pull off the road and rob me): “Yes, really.”

He eyed me through the rearview mirror.

“Orale!” he finally said. “You’re brave.”

“I’m an American woman,” I said. “We’re very independent.”

That made him laugh.

Remember all my talk about hailing cabs off the street?

by

I’m not doing it anymore. This article from El Universal scared the wits out of me. The reporters combed through a bunch of the city’s crime data to show that taxi crime victims are overwhelmingly (90 percent) women. They’re beaten, robbed, raped. Most of the perpetrators aren’t caught.

A particularly telling quote from the story, from a female official who works with crime victims: “To ride in a street taxi is to play Russian Roulette — you might be fine, but in one of those chances, it might change your life.”

Next time we go to our local sitio, I’ll try not to grumble when they charge us an extra 40 pesos.

Enjoying the wealth of taxis, with a teensy bit of American guilt

by

I’ve tried really hard to be the laid-back foreigner who takes the Metro all the time. Usually on my Metro ride back from wherever I am, though, my American princess side takes over. The Metro is freaking HOT. Like, clothes-sticking-to-your-back hot. Yesterday droplets of sweat literally fell off my face. And although the subway performers are interesting in a cultural kind of way, it’s annoying when the dude with the speaker strapped to his stomach can’t move amid the crush of people, and so you spend the entire ride with cumbia blasting in your ear.

So I’ve started taking taxis. Like, once a day. They’re cheap enough to where I can afford it, but since I’ve taken so many, I now find myself wincing if the ride is more than 60 pesos (about $4USD) and it’s not rush hour. So… I’ve started hailing them off the street. But only the safe taxis (gold and red colored sedans), and only when they have license plates, and a meter.

The issue is that I don’t know how much to tip. A Mexican friend swears that she never tips, unless the guy has gone above and beyond the call of duty. I used to tip 10 pesos all the time. Now, maybe two.

Today the driver who took me to the Centro got a two-peso tip, and we were chatting the whole time about me being a foreigner in a new city. He sent me off with a curt “Buen dia.”

My question: Am I going to get karmic payback for not tipping taxistas?

Interestingly, Crayton’s Spanish conversation partner, who is Mexican, says the Metro is mostly used by the lower-class and the mid-lower class. People with money have cars.

The mystic fetish taxista

by

I took a cab home a few days ago from the World Trade Center, after my day at the Chocolate Experience. The cab came from a sitio, which is an authorized taxi stand in Mexico City. (This is supposed to be much safer than hailing one off the street, since sitio stands have a record of your destination and the taxi license number.)

The driver was a friendly 40s-ish man with graying hair. We started chatting and I mentioned that it was my third day in Mexico. “Felicidades!” he said, clasping his hands and giving me the universal “victory” gesture. He asked how I was, and I said I was tired from walking around all day.

“You know,” he said, “if you massage your feet in three spots around the ball of your foot, you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

A few minutes later, he asked: “Do you know what podomancia is?”

Podo-what?

“Podomancia. It’s the science of reading feet. You know, like you read palms. You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their feet.”

“Interesante,” I murmured.

He asked if I wore high-heeled shoes and I said sometimes. He asked if I had a high arch, and I said yes. He recommended one- or two-inch heels as easiest on my spine, and added some technical stuff about my vertebrae that I didn’t quite understand.

Then he continued, “I can tell about you already that you have a great positive energy, and people around you like to be near you. You’re also busy all the time, which is why your feet hurt. It’s hard for you to sit still. Is that true or not?”

It was true — or at least the latter part. I thought, he knows all this and he hasn’t even looked at my feet yet?

“If you want I can take a look at your feet,” he added.
…

Read More