Taxi Driver (Kenyan – in Kenya)

Good morning. Are you going up country?

Sure am. Not many who are doing that at this time of the morning.

He laughs.

True enough. Most are heading into the city at this time of the morning. We should have a clear run up the highway.

I hope this does not sound rude but I think your idea of a highway and mine are two very different things.

He laughs again. There is no offence. Even I agree these roads are terrible. I have driven all over this country and I have to agree, our roads are a disgrace.

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Taxi Story – the Kenyan

Waiting outside Nairobi airport. An earlier made friend called Peter walks up in the company of another chap I have never seen., who holds out his cell phone and says by way of introduction:

Here you go, talk to this man.

Who? (And who are you?)

The person on the end of the phone knows where you are supposed to go.

(That is no comfort – his idea and my idea could be hemispheres apart. I take the phone.)

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Taxi Story – Chinese

(I use my time in the taxi to practise my interview techniques.  In so doing I suddenly realised I was uncovering some remarkable stories. Some are captured on my blog under the Taxi Story collection  - click on link in right hand bar to see some of them).

Hey, you know my son is very upset. He is in Japan!

In Japan? Not in Tokyo I hope.

Yes in Tokyo. He was supposed to be in one of the areas struck by the tsunami but his tour was delayed. Read more

Taxi Driver – Papuan (Port Moresby)

Where’re you boys goin’?
National Musuem
National or War Museum.
Ah, War museum actually.
Okay boys. War museum. At Gordon?
Yes.
You boys been on Kokoda?
As a matter of fact yes.
When did you finish?
Wrapped up yesterday. Were up there for nine days.
It’s good you walked Kokoda. Australians and Papuans are brothers. Australians came to Papua and died for us. We are all brothers. Read more

Taxi Story – The Pakistani (II)

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I am from Lahore and I drive this taxi part time. The taxi is owned by an Indian. I found this Indian CD behind the visor. It is actually a Pakistani song but the Indians like it. It is a very beautiful song and actually we all like it. Now this one is from India. It is an OK song. I will leave it playing.

I came from Pakistan 12 years ago. I went back to Pakistan every year until my parents died. Parents are the centre of the universe and the reason we go back. But they are now dead. Now I am the centre. Read more

Taxi Story – The Korean

Guess where I am from. I never tell anyone. It takes about ten hours to fly from here to my home.

Ah, Hong Kong?

No, no, that is eight hours.

Shanghai?

No, that is 9 hours.

Korea?

Yes, yes, Korea. Read more

Taxi Story – The Ethiopian

(Starting to slip into a US drawl) “Howya doing? Hope Street please.” (this was in Washington DC).

Silence

“Do you know where that is?”

Nods.

“Are you able to take me there?” (it is considered a tough part of town)

“Mmmmmm.” Read more

Taxi Story – The Iraqi (II)

(Slunk down in his seat, a quiet night on Macquarie Street). Hey, where do you want to go? St Leonards eh? Strange place. You had a long day? 5.30 in the morning start? You are crazy. It is  long enough for me starting to drive at 3pm.  I finish at 11pm. That is respectable. But not respectable enough Read more

Taxi Driver – The Pakistani

I jumped a cab in the city yesterday to rush back to a meeting and found myself sitting next to a tall (that was apparent even though he was sitting down) young man in a salwar kameez. Read more

I am the Captain of the Taxi – To the Tune of Amazing Grace

There are moments in life that are just laugh out loud crazy. And in this case slightly alarming. The high speed run from Amman to Queen Alia Airport this afternoon was with a very pleasant and energetic driver who told me he was ten years in the Jordanian Army, retiring as a Captain and for the last ten years he has been Captain of the Taxi. All worked out through broken English and he producing photos of his Army time while we wandered from lane to lane at 120km/h in an old Nissan that was having problems with its transmission at that speed. Both hands off the wheel. Sometimes when conversations falter these drivers put music on. Usually Arabic or sultry Lebanese. But in this case, in mid conversation he popped a tape on and shouted with glee – “back in the Army, scotch (sic) teacher”. At which point martial pipes and drums music blared forth and killed our conversation dead. Now he was just a dangerous driver as he conducted with his right hand and kept time by slapping his knee with his left, occasionally shouting “parade ground” interspersed by a droning hum or a tuneless whistle. As we neared our destination, after marching all over the parade ground in his mind for thirty minutes, the swirl of Amazing Grace came on. He slowed up to tell me how Queen Nor used to love Amazing Grace played by the bagpipes and that once she asked him to make sure it was played at a certain ceremony. The details were lost on me. I told him it was a song about how amazing God’s love is to his people even when we misbehave. He shouted “yes”, turned up the volume and struck his imaginary baton in the air as he hit the gas again. In the end it was only a Hummer at a checkpoint that momentarily quelled the pipes, but as we swung into the terminal Mull of Kintyre was winding up. As he left me kerbside I could hear it blasting from his cab, barely drowning out his tuneless whistle. And his baton was still waving. I hope he got back in one piece.

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