Taxi Rides

In Ancient Rome, transportation was largely limited to one’s own two feet. Thousands of years later, in the Western world, cars became popular after the Industrial Revolution, and today many households own at least one sedan or SUV. In many of today’s developing countries, however, technology and per capita income limit the transportation of common folk to something that is neither pre-modern nor post-Industrial Revolution, but somewhere in between. Behold, the taxi microbus.

Holding anywhere from 15 to 20 people and fitted with wheels that, almost always, have spun more kilometers than the vehicle’s original maker would ever have guessed it might, the taxi microbus is the city’s modus operandi for low-income residents commuting to and from work, the grocery store, and other business. It is loud, dirty, and cheap.

Waiting on the roadside, you need only to flick your eyes in the general direction of its careening trajectory to earn a “Hey, my bru, you want taxi? Come, my bru, taxi ride!” from the in-cab fare salesman. You nod slightly, gather your bags and jacket into your chest and squeeze into your allotted portion of seat somewhere, inevitably, in the back of the taxi. Once aboard, you find yourself a participant in the enigmatic, unspoken rules of the taxi ride. Rule #1: no one talks on the taxi, unless someone calls you on your phone. Talking is neither strange nor rude nor peculiar; it is simply and entirely inconceivable. Rule #2: you take up as little square meterage as possible. Pinching your shoulders together is not a good idea; it’s an ethic. Rule #3: you pay your fare of 80 cents or so at an exact moment that is neither specified nor agreed upon. In Pamplona, when the bull turns the corner and, panting with anger and madness, streaks down the dirty street, the bull-runners do not question the bull’s timing. They simply run. So with the taxi fare. You do not know when the paying begins. But when it does, you do not question it. You simply pay. (Note: the bull analogy is also fitting, as the average taxi driver seeks to maintain a cruising speed of 90 km/h. Again, this isn’t daring or defiant or because he’s in a hurry; it is status quo; it is thoughtless; it just is.)

When you are within 300 meters of your destination, you awkwardly yell “driver” from the recesses of the back seat. He does not hear you the first two times, so by the third time you say it you are yelling and from the corner of your eyes you can see the stares of the audience you’ve gained (they are only centimeters from your face, anyways). If you’ve timed it correctly, the driver stops within 50 meters of your drop-off spot, and again you gather your belongings, say excuse me to the overweight woman sitting in front of you with her three children and four grocery bags, and, ducking, trip your way to the sliding door in front. By this time, the entire taxi has seen your behind, and you feel, in a way, violated. Stumbling into the light of day, you feel like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption or Noah from the Flood. You make an altar to commemorate God’s faithfulness to His people and, straightening up, carry on with your day.