Taxi

I hear what could be a singer down the hall and through the paper-thin walls of my room at the Sheraton. I think he brought his ukulele. I need thicker walls.

This story begins at the airport, where I arrived via Addis Ababa with nine others on a mission that only required four. Be that as it may, there were ten of us at this rinky dink third world airfield, thoroughly jet lagged before noon, and with the uniform thought of finding our hotel. Rental cars would have been an annoyance to manage, so we’re spending this week at the merci of hapless Djiboutian cabbies and their haplesser Djiboutian cabs.


We started a simple game early on, rating the cabs on the newly minted Djiboutian Taxi Scale. It’s the usual one to ten thing, but based on the notion that the best of all possible Djiboutian cabs is worse than the most beat up wreck you’ve ever driver. We didn’t really know what would be up or down limit on this scale, but we tried to be fair in our rating.

The average cab, a four point five, is a green over white Toyota Mark II. [They look to be seventh generation, which would make them between 16 and 20 years old.] Typically, the average cab has a manual transmission, three out of four cylinders in constant operation, no less than two windows uncracked and operational, peeled vinyl seats, and mostly working interior door handles. This is average, and average gets you anywhere in town for 1,000 – 2,000 Djiboutian Francs (six to twelve bucks), depending on the distance and regardless of the number of passengers you can cram into the thing.

The best thing about them is that they can’t go very fast on less than all cylinders, so any crash would be at a survivable rate of speed. The worst thing about them (and this is true around the world) is that if the radio/stereo works, the driver will crank American Pop/Country tunes through broken and tinny speakers, hoping to make us feel at home. Fortunately, working sound systems only occur on cabs rated five or better.

The variations of the bottom half of the class seem endless, depending on how battered the particular machine happens to be, and includes an assortment of these:

• Cracked windshield - where the crack grows during the ride
• Smashed windshields - with the apparent impact point directly in front of the front seat passenger’s head
• Inoperable window controls - nice when it’s 110^ outside
• Nonexistent windows - improves the overall dust to passenger ratio
• Lack of window trim at the door frame - leaving exposed and jagged metal right where your arm wants to rest
• Worn, cracked, and sagging seats - for added comfort
• Seat covers, dash covers, and package shelf covers in a variety of artificial and authentic animal skins - perhaps it’s roadkill
• Air conditioning (not hardly, just checking to see if you were still with me)
• Trash - it’s ubiquitous
• Generally decrepit bodywork - it’s expected
• Brush applied paint - it’s obvious
• Left or right drive - gives the left front seated passenger the added responsibility for checking traffic during passing
• Bald tires - but they don’t need wet traction
• Wobbly wheels - might fall off
• Rattling and inconsistent brakes - scary
• Spoilers with LED effects - tres cool
• Bad stereos, blown speakers, and amplified ululation - for appropriate theme music

In general, an automatic transmission is worth an extra point, although power windows are typically worth one less point, due to the fact that they never work. Most of the front seat belts seem to latch, but if they hold up in a crash is still a mystery I don’t need to solve.

Operator condition is another factor relating to the overall quality of the ride. Our ability to communicate in their mix of Somali, Patois, French, and a smattering of English (mix and match) is a hurdle, although we have usually made it to our various destinations on the first attempt.

In the afternoon, most of our drivers have a mouth full of green teeth brought on by the khat chewing they’ve been doing since their lunchtime siesta. Mid afternoon seems a good time to catch them, as they are well past the manic needy stage they’d feel before they start using and are on the mellow, downward side of their daily high. Those hopped up on khat are a little less attentive than in the morning, but still try to pass everything else on the road, which is sort of funny if they’re driving a cab rated two or three, foot to the floor, and riding the clutch so they don’t overburden the motor.

Once I’ve taken the same cab twice. Once I’ve taken the same cab thrice. In each case, I’m sure the condition got worse between trips.

Fridays here are like Sundays in the States, if the States were desolate, trashed out desert cities. Our driver that morning seemed to enjoy the totally empty streets and put his particular Mark II (a solid 7) through its paces, pedal to metal on the straights and using the entire roadway for the corners. Now, long ago, Dad told me that the first thing I need to do when travelling to a foreign place is to learn the phrase “you’re going too fast” in the local language. Sometime, though, the thrill is just what I need to set me up for the day, so we let him drive on unencumbered reaching speeds of 30, 35, and even 40 miles per hour.

It was intense.

The other night, we took cabs rated 2 to 6 downtown to find a locally renown Lebanese place. We found it next to the darkened windows of a snooty looking French place and hustled our group upstairs and into the dining room. After some chaos, we found that it was in fact the French place after all, and that it was the Lebanese place that closed, only to be occupied by the French place.

Dang.

And the food was horrible, by the way, and not just because it was French, but because it was horrible French. We drank them out of Tuskers, too, and the lack of additional bottles didn’t add to the experience.

It was dark when we left the place, and worked our way from the side street back to the square, past the ranks of higglers, beggers, and con artists. With ten of us, we needed three cabs, so I started scanning the square as we approached. Then, just to the right, I saw a pale green glow that seemed to both soften and brighten as I started to focus. Once within ten meters, I knew it was a very special taxi.

Typically this week, I’ve taken on the role of Team Logistics, which includes goat roping, security coordination, cat wrangling, schedule conflict resolution, nose counting and the development of cab assignments. In the latter-est, I first ascertain who has local currency, and then place people into taxis. It’s not real hard, but (I swear) these engineers are idiots sometimes and can’t figure out how to enter a taxi without someone telling them to get into a taxi (sheesh).

Usually, I’m in the last cab, because I want to be sure that everyone is accommodated, but not this time. I quickly arranged for the others, gave seating and payment assignments and practically ran to this extraordinary machine.

As I ran my hand lightly over the highly polished quarter panel, I was drawn to the pristine white vinyl seat covers. The underbody had LED effects, as did the spoiler, with a LED ring around the end of the tailpipe. The wheel had stark white wheel covers and matching mud flaps. The rear door opened without a creak, and clicked shut solidly. It was tidy, it was clean, it had a battery operated closet light mounted on the headliner. It had dingleballs and a little stuffed cherub glued to the dash. With automatic transmission and four working cylinders, I was sure that this was it, the elusive Ten, and the Brandi he played had never been so loudly (or most distortedly) amplified.

Minutes later, we were back at our hotel and the ride had ended, with only the memory of his illuminated ornamental hood bird to sustain me.
Read More......