Airport Hustle: The Panama Rental Racket

It’s an hour-long ride from the marina to Panama City—a road that feels like it can’t decide whether it wants to be a jungle safari or a skyline tour. We were returning a rented truck from a low-rent outfit at the airport. You know the one, booked through Priceline.com, where you land and get shuttled twenty miles to pick up the car. You save a bit of cash, but you already know it’s going to add an equal amount of frustration in your life.

My buddy had warned me the pick up was a circus: hidden fees, mystery charges, and a toll pass that supposedly came “included” but was about as funded as a politician’s promise. Every time he hit a toll road, it zapped him for $13 because the balance was "delinquent"—and the company refused to let him reload it. You can’t make this stuff up.

We roll into the rental car drop-off at the airport. Little instruction was given—“call when you arrive.” Of course, the contact we’re supposed to meet might as well have been on Mars. We’re on time, and he’s nowhere to be found. After a few failed calls, we wander inside looking for a desk that doesn’t exist. Having found nothing—as expected—and with frustration rising, we decide to just drop the keys in the fuel door and call it done. On the way out, I ask a random guy cleaning another car, and to his credit, he’s actually helpful—points us right where to park and who to talk to. That’s where the fun begins.

We park the truck, and my buddy goes inside to alert the inspector that we’re dropping it off. Think Wally Cleaver meets used-car-lot sleaze—the kind of guy who’s too friendly, too eager, too… something. After years of traveling abroad, you can spot it a mile away—you get a sixth sense for desperation. I grab my bag and step behind the truck, doom-scrolling on my phone as I wait—and that’s when I notice five guys just hanging around behind me. They’re not looking at us, but they’re definitely there. None are in uniform, and each has that unmistakable shady-but-overconfident swagger. My buddy starts getting his things out of the truck as the “inspector” begins inspecting. As he circles the hood, clipboard in hand, he cuts across to the passenger side like he’s racing. He stops, leans over the fender, and calls out, “Hey, come look at this.”

And there it is—a fresh, clean scratch running across both front panels. I could feel the paint still raised as I ran my finger across it, glinting in the sun. It just happened to be right at hip height—right where his key had been in his hand a minute ago. The dude literally keyed the car right there. Besides the fact that three people had been using that car, it was not a subtle scratch; it would have been spotted earlier. I would have seen it the three times I got in and out of the car on the way down. Plus, we’d just driven an hour through rain at 85 mph—if that mark had been there before, it would’ve been worn smooth by now.

He shrugs as he examines it, all casual, and says, “Normally that’s $250… but if you pay me $150 cash right now, I can take care of it. No report, no problem.”

No cameras, no manager, no oversight—just a little back-alley theater where you’re outnumbered, out of options, and your Spanish vocabulary tops out at conversational. My buddy forked over the $150 and we kicked feet.

To add to the absurdity, we both realized as we were walking away that he’d only looked at that one side. After my buddy shelled out the cash, the inspection was suddenly over. No need to check the rest of the truck for damage. The guy didn’t even feign propriety — just went full circus mode.

This isn’t just a Panama thing obviously—shady folks like this are everywhere. But honestly, you almost have to admire it. The audacity, the precision, the pure hustle. You’ve got no leg to stand on—you just have to pay or else....

Days Sober: 2,103