Llewellyn
King
Read Llewellyn's bio and previous columns
July 21, 2008
Hail a Cab, Hail a
Culture
CARTEGENA, Colombia – I think it was the English writer Alan Bennett who said
that, for him, taxis were not the black boxes he found in London, but
the "yellow projectiles" that hurtle through intersections in New York.
Taxis tell you a lot about a country, and more about the
social status of the taxi-driving class. In France taxis are clean,
small and entrepreneurial. Taxi drivers in France do not think they are
at the bottom rung of the social ladder.
Alas, American taxis tell us that the drivers would rather be
doing something else. The cars are dirty, seats are broken and the
drivers are often mannerless immigrants with no sense of service.
It was not always like this.
When New York taxis were driven by the Jewish working class,
men who read the New York Post and lived in the Bronx, you got a
serving of philosophy, or at least humor, with each ride. Similarly, in
Washington D.C., taxis were spotless and driven by older African
American men, who appeared to love their work, knew the geography of the
city and took pride in it.
Finally, Washington taxis have meters. But because the hack
bureau of the city government has no teeth, the taxis are as dirty as
ever, the drivers talk incessantly on cell phones in the languages of
Africa and the Middle East and treat their passengers as inconvenient
necessities.
Things are not much better in other American cities.
In Atlanta, I was taken all the way around the Beltway to
reach an address near the airport. The driver did not know the way,
would not listen to me and refused to call his dispatcher for guidance.
In Houston, I had an experience nearly as bad when the
driver, newly arrived from Nigeria, took me about 25 miles out of my way
because he could not understand what I was saying to him.
Taxis in Los Angeles are more fun. Here the driver is more
likely to turn to you and say, "I am not actually a taxi driver. I am in
the movie business." In the City of Angels, I have been offered two
scripts and a demonstration tape by drivers who thought I could advance
their careers. When I asked friends in L.A. why I had been singled out
for this treatment, they replied, "You wore a suit. Nobody but movie
financiers wear them here. And you were probably staying at The Beverly
Hills Hotel." I was.
In Chicago, a driver waved a bunch of bills at me and said,
"We have the best police money can buy."
In the Third World, taxi drivers offer services beyond
transportation. In Singapore, I arrived to give a speech just before a
monsoon broke. I was greeted at the airport by a lovely, young ethnic
Chinese woman who asked if I was Mr. King. I said I was. She said, "I
have a car waiting for you," and escorted me to a Rolls Royce. I thought
things were looking up.
As we headed out of the airport, she began to tell me about
the program for the following day. She said there would be a tour of the
port, an inspection of crane technology and meetings with maritime
officials. When I pointed out that I was in Singapore to give a speech
on energy, not port operation and technology, she started screaming at
the driver, "Wrong Mr. King! Wrong Mr. King!" Just as the monsoon broke,
and rain came down in a way that you do not see outside Asia, she tossed
me and my bag out of the Rolls. Taxis evaporated.
Then there appeared at my side a man I called Mr. Fixit.
Journalists learn the value of shady entrepreneurs in tight situations.
"I have taxi," he declared, grabbing my bag. I asked if it had a meter
and light on the top, knowing the answer. "No, my taxi discreet," he
said.
There was not much choice, so we negotiated a fee and off we
went in quite a nice car that he had illegally parked at the curb.
"I am looking after you in Singapore," announced Mr. Fixit.
"We go see snake charmer, crocodile wrestling and transvestite show. And
at night, I bring you different girls, every kind of ethnic." Then,
quite suddenly, he took his hands off the wheel, turned to me and put
them around his throat. "No drugs. When government start hanging people,
I stop drugs."
In Rio de Janeiro, in the 1960s and 1970s, the standard taxi
cab was a VW Bug, with the front passenger seat removed. It worked
surprisingly well, but only for two passengers.
The Soviets simply did not understand economic value, and
neither did the puppet governments in their satellites. The Poles are
justifiably proud of their strong horses. And in the last days of the
Soviet Union, they used horses to plow fields. But in one village, I was
astounded to see a large, agricultural tractor towing a small cart
marked "taxi."
Of course, taxis in London are part of the pride of the
place. Fact and mythology get a bit mixed up about the cabs, and
Londoners like it that way. In law, it is said, a London cab must carry
a bale of hay for the horse and it is legal for a man to urinate on the
right rear wheel.
London cabs are always
evolving. Every few years, a competition is held for a new cab design to
fit current conditions. It is said that the only two essential criteria
are that the roof must be high enough for a man to wear a top hat and
that the can must be able to turn almost entirely on its own length. The
cabs are not always built by automobile companies, and there is fierce
competition for new innovations.
Which brings me to the yellow projectiles and the cabs of
Cartegena, which are not so much yellow projectiles as yellow darts,
buzzing around in a way that reminds me of yellow jackets. These cabs
are clean and made by various manufacturers, including Chevrolet,
Hyundai, Kia and Renault. No car so small would have the temerity to
offer itself as a taxi in America. But the price of gas here is a
factor. The price at the pump in Cartagena hovers at U.S.$4 per gallon.
As the price of oil increases in America, look for the
downsizing of all vehicles, and cabs in particular. But I fear that we
will get the downsizing without the cleanliness and courtesy of the cabs
in Cartagena.
© 2008 North Star
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