Making a quick getaway

THERE we were – four scribes from three of the country’s top media houses squeezed into a yellow cab and slogging it from a post-Opening Ceremony drink on Copacabana back to our digs near the Olympic Park in Barra.

Our taxi driver, Felipe, like every other Rio cabbie, spoke precious little English, so yours truly with his fanagalo “Spangli-guese” was tasked with issuing directions.

Oh, it got heated, especially when we changed our minds and opted to try and go straight home instead of to the sanctity of the media centre, where there is an ongoing bus service.

But I had dragged Felipe straight into convoys of buses still ferrying 10 000 athletes back to their village.

“Nao entrada,” the copper swiped, as Felipe pleaded that we needed to be on the road he was preventing us from entering.

By the third blocked-off off-ramp, Felipe had flipped.

The Portuguese only your uncle might teach you was spewing out of his mouth, which didn’t seem to have the desired effect on the latest man in uniform.

Hand gestures ensued, before a Top Gear-style take-off in our very underpowered Nissan diesel. The tyres should have screeched for effect, but Felipe’s glare was drama enough.

“Tranquillo, Senor Senna,” I said, trying to get him to calm his speed.

“Mr Ayrton Senna is dead!” he growled in perfect taxi English.

I was staggered. The cheeky bugger knew English after all, and had listened to us speculating about the possible reasons why he was driving like a maniac.

“Enjoy the Olympic Games, Sir,” he smiled once he had his tip.

The language barrier has made for some truly entertaining conversations.

Being in a country where Ingles is an option and not a priority has been truly humbling, and not even our pitiful Spanish offerings have helped. It won’t be the last time, but we certainly won’t forget the 3am ride with Felipe, the messy one.