Taxis

I may have waxed lyrical about taxis too soon, and in so doing vexed the taxi demi-gods, which is the only explanation of how on the one day I needed a taxi badly, I ended up with a guy who barely spoke English and whose understanding of Google Maps was minimal at best. Well, that or [Sod’s Law](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sod's_law](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sod's_law). The fault lay, at least partly, with me. It had been my first full day back at work since the beginning of Ramadan and my hunger addled brain failed to register the fact that the bus which would ferry me back from the middle of nowhere which was my work station for that day would arrive 30 minutes earlier than usual. On the phone to the taxi dispatcher, he explained that the earliest he could get someone out to me was an hour and thirty minutes, which seeing as I had no choice I accepted. Although he had my location, he somehow ended up at a site thirty minutes away. There was much hand wringing, and plenty more oohs and ahhs when he finally turned up, a full two hours later than had first been envisaged. I could only sit and fester for the whole of the 45 minute back to semi-civility and the comfort of my couch. Truth me told, umbrage is a luxury only those who have choices can take. I still hold the view that taxi rides are underated delights, the one caveat though is that there isn’t an insurmountable language barrier. ...

A first taxi ride since July, occasioned by an urgent need to head out into the wider ‘Shire for work, is how I end up in slowly moving traffic on Guild Street one Tuesday morning. As we inch along towards the first set of traffic lights, the announcer on the radio points out what is bleeding obvious to us - that there are long tail backs on our favoured route. The taxi driver, fingers tapping on the steering wheel in that understatedly impatient way the young and restless have, gives things a few minutes before he fires up his TomTom device to assess what our routing options are. It turns out the longer route is the better one on this occasion - his device predicting that it is the quicker one by ten minutes. Being stuck with him, I shrug when he asks if I mind his taking the route. I don’t suppose I have a lot of choice, besides hopping out of his taxi and legging it, or calling off my trip entirely. Once we are out of the snarling traffic and heading out towrds my destination, the incessant tapping stops, all his nervous energy perhaps being dissipated by the manoveuring he has had to do to get us out of our spot of bother. ...

Sometime last week, I found myself waiting in what was wet, grey and windy weather - typical summer fare for this part of the world - waiting for a taxi I had requested. As I had arrived downstairs a few minutes after 8.30 am when I had ordered the taxi for, I was a little uncertain as to if he had been and left or was yet to arrive. He turned up at 8.40 am, by which time I had come close to phoning the taxi company to confirm if I had missed my ride. The cab ride which followed - all 45 minutes of it - was spent in a gloomy silence, the tension in the taxi palpable. I’m sure he meant no ill, much as I didn’t either but something about the circumstances under which we met seemed to have soured our taxi driver-passenger relationship. That he had all sorts of weird tattoos on his arms, drove with only one hand on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead didn’t help break the ice either, I suspect. ...

On a typical day, the scene that meets the eye at the head of the airport taxi rank is one of barely controlled chaos - the line of passengers snaking along into the distance, two or three cabs pulling up every few minutes to whittle away at the edgy crowd and the harried dispatcher somehow managing to maintain a semblance of sanity in the middle of it all defining the mad half hour immediately following the arrival of an inbound flight. Today there is a line of taxis and no passengers waiting. Two men - and a woman - stand at the head of the taxi rank, talking. Their conversation is deep and intense - there are hands flailing about, gesturing wildly and a few guffaws here and there - such that I have to clear my throat to attract their attention. At the second time of clearing my throat, I succeed. They split up like people surprised, maybe even a little guilty. The woman - who must be the dispatcher given her fluorescent yellow jacket - waves me in the direction of the car at the head of the line, a jet black Audi. One of the men standing and chatting turns out to be the driver, his keys remotely popping the trunk as I dump my bags and as he makes his way to the driver’s side of the car. ...