10 - 16 May 2001
Issue No.533
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 10 - 16 May 2001 Issue No.533 |
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Got you
In recent days, parking at work has become nearly impossible. On good days, I am prepared to go three or four times around the block until I eventually find a space, but on others, the very idea of the ordeal makes me nauseous. Yesterday was a bad day, so I took a taxi downtown and then another to Zamalek to visit my mother. Both drivers were perfectly civil and I was beginning to like the idea of being chauffeured while indulging in my favourite pastime, daydreaming. I even began to think it would be a good idea to sell the car. Were the expenses incurred as a car owner superior or inferior to taxi fares? I gave up my calculations only when I realised that I had to take into account the depreciation of my vehicle versus the depreciation of the pound and decided to enjoy the ride instead, postponing crucial decisions to a later date.
At work one of our young reporters warned me against taking taxis all the way to Maadi at night. "You should be careful, you never know what could happen, some of these drivers can be really nasty," she cautioned me, after listening to my song of praise about this mode of transport. "Rubbish," I thought. "Taxis are perfectly safe."
In the evening, my mother was not happy either. "Why don't you hire a chauffeur, if you hate driving so much?" she asked. "I tried, I told her, "but my late hours don't agree with them. Besides they would have the same trouble parking."
I did not want to go into the half dozen drivers who had given up the very attractive wages I was offering when faced with the necessity of walking in the dark to the nearest bus stop (which is by no way near) at one in the morning. The last one had even left, never to return, without claiming the week due to him. I was tired at the idea of having to try again, I said. "Stop working so late then," said my mother, "you're too old for that anyway." I pointed out that it was precisely people my age, who had no social life to speak of, who were prepared to do the job. She shrugged, but soon after we had dinner she asked me to leave. "And don't forget to call me as soon as you arrive," she reminded me.
It was relatively early and feeling rather secure because of the still heavy traffic, I did not pay much attention to the driver's looks before flagging the taxi at the street corner. As we drove off, he informed me that he wanted LE20 for the trip. Usually I consider such a statement arrogant and leave the taxi at once. Influenced by my old regime upbringing no doubt, I still firmly believe that passengers should be at liberty to pay what they see fit and that drivers should rely on their fairness. This time however, I reasoned that the man was asking no more than the going price, and I failed to react adversely. We drove on in silence for a while and then he asked me if I wanted to go by the "autostrad." Why on earth would I want to go this convoluted way, I wondered, and was finally alerted. "No," I told him briefly, "the corniche." I began to watch him noticing that he had shifty eyes which were observing me intently in his mirror. I was no longer comfortable and gripped my bag firmly against my chest. I fortunately had pulled a LE20 note out before leaving my mother's house and was clutching it in my hand. A good thing I would not have to open my wallet on arrival, I thought. I suddenly remembered seeing passengers stepping out of taxis and moving away before opening their wallets to pay the fare. Maybe I wasn't as safe as I had imagined after all.
Eventually we made it home, but my street was blocked by a condolence tent and we had to stop at the corner. "Thank you," I said handing him the agreed fare. He snatched the bill without looking and as I was leaving the cab, he attempted to grab my bag. "You gave me one pound," he suddenly hollered, waving a rolled up pound under my nose.
The street corner was dark and deserted and the reading of the Qur'an in the tent nearby would have drowned my screams, I knew, but having prepared myself for such an eventuality, I held onto my bag and felt no fear. "Look, young man," I said with as much haughtiness as I could summon, "this is a very old trick that has been played on me before you were born. Now get going before I have you arrested." As I spoke, I managed to retreat behind the tent and a minute later I was in the pharmacy which luckily was still open and where I was sure I would find support in case the scoundrel had decided to follow me. My neighbour, Munir, a practiced athlete, was standing beside the counter. I was safe.
"What is happening to this country?" I wailed. "What, you just noticed?" he asked with a smile. I told him the story. He listened quietly. "If you had really given him a pound you would not have seen the end of it; he is gone, which proves that he got the correct fare," said Munir, "but he mistook you for a foreigner; it happens all the time and they usually pay up, thinking that they made a mistake." I thought that the excuse was really worse than the crime. Munir walked me home and as I passed my parked car, I gave it an affectionate pat.
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