America Lives in her Taxis

They say that India lives in her villages. Likewise, I believe that America lives in her Taxis! Because, if you want to know how diverse the culture here is in America, you'd have to sit in the taxis. I came to this conclusion after taking plenty of taxi rides in the big cities (New York, Chicago, Seattle and Milwaukee). And invariably, every single time I sit in a taxi, I would come across a cabbie from a different country. So far, I have managed to meet people from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Russia, Poland, Turkey, Morocco, Algeria, Ethiopia and Somalia. And it is quite interesting to note the differences and similarities in their behavior

Cabbies from the subcontinent would generally be very quiet and reserved.

“Where do you want to go today, Sir?” That’s probably the only thing that they would ever speak. But just when you are about to reach your destination, they would ask gingerly, “Are you from India?”

“Yes.” I would reply.

A wide smile would form on their faces. “Arre, main bhi India se aaya hoon. India mein kahaan se?” they would ask.

That’s a question that always stumps me. And many a times in the past, I have actually given different answers for this question. What should I say, Delhi? Noida? Chennai? Bangalore? Patiala? The cultures of all these places have been blended into me now, so much so that I find it much more comfortable to say that I am from India than name any particular region inside India. So, depending on my mood at that time, I would randomly pick out one of those five places.

By then, I would’ve reached my destination and would ask the cabbie, “Kitna bana?”

“Arre, aap toh India se hain. Jo aapki iccha ho!” the cabbie would grin from head to toe.

This is another question that gets me stumped. How am I supposed to know how much I owe you?

But I would sneak-peek at the meter and pay the cabbie with a dollar or two more than the actual amount. Somehow, that statement always manages to soften my heart a little...

Cabbies from Eastern Europe are completely different. For starters, they look scary. They are heavily built, usually sport beards and often give the impression that they are mafia henchmen, doing the job of a taxi driver as a cover. I remember one particular instance involving a Polish cabbie.

We were standing a couple of blocks away from Times Square and waiting for a cab to get to the Grand Central Train Station. There were six of us, including a child. In New York, cabs are only allowed to carry a maximum of four passengers. But we thought that given an extra dollar or two, the taxi drivers would bend the rules a little. So, we waited and waited as cab after cab refused to pick us up. Even Indian taxi drivers, whom I thought would have the same ‘chalta hai’ attitude like in India, simply shook their heads and sped past us.

Just when we thought that we had to take two taxis, a yellow cab skidded to a halt right in front of us. A heavy set man with a long scar running across his face leaned out of the window and spoke in a deep guttural voice, “Where are you heading?”

“Grand Central.” We replied.

He jerked his head a little and said, “Hop in.”

After being refused by a dozen taxi drivers before, we were a little surprised. “We are five people and a child.” We spoke out gingerly.

“Yes. I see that. No problem. A couple of dollars more than the meter and we are fine.” He replied without a trace of an emotion on his face.

So we packed ourselves like sardines and headed towards Grand Central. The cabbie was very quiet, while we, on the other hand, were making quite a racket on the back seat. I was worried that he might be offended. So I tried to strike a conversation with him. I leaned forward and asked him, “So where are you from?”

“Poland.” He replied harshly. I gulped and crept back into my seat. Once we reached our destination, we paid him and got out of the car. No pleasantries were exchanged. It was all business. I initially thought that the cabbie was rude, but then after meeting a couple of other cabbies from Eastern Europe who seemed to have a similar attitude, I concluded that they were not rude. Instead, that was just their normal behavior. That was how they normally talked! I guess perceptions can often be very misleading...especially in a cross-cultural context!

Cabbies from the middle east and northern Africa talk very courteously. Once you got into the cab, they would talk for a good five minutes about the destination where you’d be going...about the weather...the economy. But all of a sudden, the cabbie would start speaking in his native tongue.

“Excuse me!” I would say, completely taken aback by the barrage of Arabic words.

The cabbie would then point to an earpiece lodged on his ear.

Aah…hands free. I would think. And from then on, until I reached my destination, the cabbie would then shout, scream, whisper, laugh and display a range of other emotions in his native dialect.

But the most interesting cabbies are the ones from Sub-Saharan Africa. They are friendly and extremely talkative. In fact, they do not have any inhibitions while having a conversation. One such taxi driver deserves special mention. I call him 'The Cabbie from Somaliland'