The Cabbie from Somaliland

On the evening of March the seventh, I found myself standing outside Microsoft’s office in Redmond, frantically waving at a taxi cab on the road.

The car stopped beside me and a heavy set black man got out of the driving seat. With a big booming smile on his face, he ambled towards me, picked up my luggage and stashed it inside the boot.

“Hello there! I’m Abdul (name changed). Going to the airport, brother?” the cabbie asked, as he turned the ignition.

“Yes, Sir.” I replied.

“May I know when is your flight, bro?”

“Its at midnight. We have plenty of time.” I looked at my watch. It was around seven o’clock.

“What will you do at the airport so early?” the cabbie asked as he guided the car outside the Microsoft complex and into the highway that led to Seattle.

“Err…I don’t know. I had nothing to do. So, I thought I’d just go to the airport and wait there.”

I was extremely tired. My interviews that day were very tough and frustrating. All I wanted to do was to get back to West Lafayette and back to the company of my friends. Spending your birthday all alone isn’t the ideal way to spend your birthday! And even though it felt a little weird talking to this huge stranger behind the wheel, I longed for some friendly conversation.

“Can I give you a suggestion, bro?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure…” I replied apprehensively.

“Why don’t you go to downtown and enjoy the city?”

“I’ve been to downtown.”

“So, you saw the Space Needle?”

“Yes.”

“The City Center…museum?”

“Yes.”

“The Pike Place Market?”

“Yup” I yawned.

“But did you see all that at night?” the cabbie winked.

I raised my eyebrows, “Uhh…I guess not.”

“Ok. So, let me take you to downtown then. It is very beautiful at night, bro.”

“You mean, the lights and all that stuff?”

“Yes, bro. Trust me, it is good.”

Why is this guy so adamant of getting me to visit downtown? Does he have any special reason to take me there? I nervously shifted around in my seat. The car seemed hot even though the AC was running.

“One question. Just to confirm.” He turned around and spoke out.

“Yeah?”

“Those guys at the office gave you the coupon?”

I slipped my hands into my pockets and retrieved a yellow slip of paper.

Ah! Now this is what its all about! A wave of relief swept over me.

Microsoft had given me a taxi coupon. I would just have to mention the place I visited and write down the amount and hand that coupon to the cabbie. The cabbie would then cash it at his office.

“Yes, I have the coupon.” I scoffed.

“Oh! Don’t get me wrong, brother.” The cabbie seemed offended. “I know that the company is paying you. But that does not mean I will cheat the company.”

“Uhh…pardon?”

“Some taxi drivers here do that. Take the party to the airport and fill up an amount that is twice the fare. They make it look like the party has traveled to downtown, maybe Bellevue and then to the airport. But I’m doing no such thing.”

“So…uhm…how does this work exactly?”

“I take you to downtown. You enjoy downtown at night. Then I take you to the airport. And fill up the total amount. I get paid more. You get to enjoy. We do something that is perfectly ethical. What do you say?”

“Alright. I guess so.” I raised my eyebrows and nodded back.

“Microsoft is a great company, bro. They call a lot of people here, which gives us our business. I would never cheat the company, bro.”

The company? Makes microsoft sound like some kind of a mafia outfit!

I slouched back on my seat and slight smile formed on my face.

The cabbie then took me to downtown and gave me a guided tour of all the major landmarks. And once we were done with that, we proceeded to move towards the airport.

After a brief moment of silence, the cabbie spoke out again, “May I know your name, bro?”

“Sri.”

“Sri? You are from India, I suppose. Southern part?”

“Well…yeah.” I replied.

“India is a beautiful country, Sri.”

“Ohh…yes it is! Have you been there Abdul?”

“No. But I have heard good stories. I want to visit your country someday.”

“Where are you from?”

“Somaliland.” The cabbie replied with pride.

“Somaliland?” I was pretty sure that there was no such country by the name of Somaliland. “Do you mean, Somalia?” I asked.

“No no. Somaliland. Haven’t you heard of Somaliland?” he seemed shocked.

“Tell me about it.”

“We are an autonomous region bordering Somalia.”

“Ahh…so how is the political situation there? I hear there are a lot uprisings going on these days in Africa.”

“In Somalia, it is bad. It is very bad. Corrupt government. People are living in misery there. But in Somaliland, we follow democracy. We are free.” He replied passionately.

I just nodded. I would’ve wanted to hear his opinions about the Somali pirates. But I restricted myself. What if I say something wrong and this guy gets a little cranky!

The cabbie seemed to understand the situation and quickly changed the topic.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Sri?” he smiled.

“Err…ok, go ahead.”

I would’ve rather had a political conversation!

“Your girlfriend is American? Or is she from India?”

“Uhhh.” I was completely taken aback by this question. “Abdul, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

The cabbie suddenly burst out in laughter.

“You’re kidding me, Sri? You are in the United States of America and you don’t have a girlfriend?”

What the hell! I thought. I regained my composure and replied, “Well, is that a big deal?”

“No. I mean people come here and fuck blond women, bro!”

I shifted a little towards the window, looked at my watch and adjusted my shirt collar.

The cabbie continued speaking, “You came here for an interview, right? You study here?”

“Yeah.” I replied.

“And you haven’t fucked a blond woman yet?”

"Uhh…Nope! I’d rather like to spend my time and energy in doing what I came here for.”

“Very good. I’m impressed. But you look very young, Sri. Now is the time to do a lot of fucking. Once you get older, it ain’t gonna happen.”

"Uhh…probably.” I didn’t know what to say.

“So, you are going to marry a girl from your country then?”

“Uhh…most probably. But then, I can’t rule out any possibility.”

“Diplomatic, eh?” He turned around and smiled. “American women are very good when they are young. You will really enjoy them. You may want to marry one of them and settle here. But once you get old like me, you’d want to get back to your culture, your tradition. And that time it will be a problem. For example, we respect our elders in our culture. They don’t do it here. This and a lot other stuff will come in the way.”

“Well I guess, it is important that the cultures and traditions be passed on to the next generation.” I shrugged.

“Well said, bro. I like your thinking. Your parents would be proud of you.”

“Err…yeah. I guess so.”

And then an instant relief surged through me as I saw the lights of the airport terminal up ahead. The moment we came to the airport, I quickly handed him the coupon and got out of my car.

“Good luck Sri. Hope you clear your interview. And have a safe flight.”, the cabbie spoke out as he took out my luggage from the boot of the car.

“Thank you Abdul. Hope you continue to get interesting customers like me.” I laughed, shook my head and stepped through the automatic doors and into the plush carpeting of the Seattle Tacoma Airport.

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'

Tryst with the Italian Barber

On the eve of my birthday, I happened to find myself wandering through the streets of Seattle. Situated on the north western edge of the United States, Seattle is a modern metropolis that has managed to retain its old coastal charm. In fact, it is a blend of opposites - sleepy yet vibrant, modern yet traditional, commercial yet cultural. And on that pleasant sunny evening, I found myself navigating through the steep downhill roads that led from downtown towards the Pacific coast*.

As I walked and half-trotted down the steep road, I saw my reflection on the glass windows of a boutique store. My reflection looked back at me and seemed to shout out in rage : "Dude, it looks as if you've got a nest up there, on top of your head. For heaven's sake, at least for once try to look neat and smart. Tomorrow is a big day!" **

So instead of continuing with my mindless jaywalking, I decided to find myself a barber who could give me that nice corporate look. And after a good half an hour of exploration, I entered Luca's barber shop (name changed). The barber shop was inside an old rickety looking building, a complete contrast to the glass megastructures that stood a couple of hundred meters away. As I was contemplating on whether to go in or not, a big booming voice caught me by surprise, "Hello there! Welcome to Luca's Barber Shop!"

Luca was a man in his late forties with crisp short hair, horn rimmed spectacles and wide friendly smile. I stepped inside the shop. "What can I do for you, today?" He spoke in a thick accent. I presumed he was Italian, because of his name and how his accent seemed to remind me of Marlon Brando's role as Vito Corleone.

"I need a haircut." I replied back gingerly.

"Then you have come to right place! Come have a seat. I’m Luca."

“I’m Sri.” I shook his extended hand.

Luca was a very talkative chap and kept on talking while he trimmed my hair.
"So, what brings you here to Seattle?" he asked as snipped away with his scissors.

"What makes you think that I don't live here in Seattle?" I gave a mischievous retort.

"I can tell, man! I've been running this shop for 10 years. I've met a lot of people and talked to a lot them!" I saw him smiling back from his reflection on the mirror.

"Does that mean that only tourists come to your barber shop?"

"Ha! You're a funny guy. It is easy to spot tourists by the way they talk and move around."

Well, I guess he was true to some extent. Tourists do stand out, for they betray their sense of unfamiliarity by their body language. But then again, Luca could be just making an educated guess.

"I'm here for an interview." I replied.

"Aah. Microsoft?" Luca inquired.

"Bingo! How did you guess?"

“Microsoft is huge man! They got so many people working here.” He pointed his scissors and looked at me through the mirror, “and a lotta them from your country. It's like you guys are born with computers man!” He gave a hearty laugh.

I simply smiled and nodded.

Luca continued, “Good thing, you came to me man!” He stepped forward and opened his drawer.

“Why is that?” I frowned as he picked up another pair of scissors and slotted them through his fingers.

“You need to look like a geek man and not like a hippie, if you want to make a good impression.”

“You bet!” I replied.

And after a few more minutes of scissor work, Luca was done.

“Everything good?” He asked as he held a mirror to the back of my head.

“Yup. I guess so.” I replied with satisfaction.

“You look good man. Those nerdy chicks are gonna dig you.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Yeah! You got plenty of them nerdy chicks here in Seattle. All the best for your interview man!”

I thanked him and handed him the money. As I was about to leave the shop, Luca interrupted, “Hey Sri!”

I turned around thinking that I might have left something back at the shop.

“Don’t forget to bang one of those nerdy chicks after your interview.” He winked.

I smiled, shook my head and walked out of the shop.

* I was walking from the City centre towards Pike Place Market.

** I had an interview for an internship position with Microsoft, the next day.

The Girl Who Sat Next To Me

I still had two hours to go before my train departed the station. So, I ambled into the food court, grabbed a pizza and sat at the only free table in the area. Feeling that creative urge kicking inside me, I opened my laptop and began writing some random stuff. I was so engrossed in my writing that I didn’t notice a petite figure standing next to me.

“Excuse me.” The figure said in a very sweet and polite voice. Half annoyed that someone had disrupted my thoughts while writing, I looked up with a frown on my face. And my eyes met the blue and innocent eyes of a twenty-something blond girl. My frown vanished and my eyebrows almost reached the tips of my hair.

Why was this pretty girl standing next to me? Before she even continued speaking, a barrage of questions pounded my mind :

Was she about to complain that my suitcase was protruding out and impeding the walkway?

Was she here to ask directions?

Was she here to take some kind of a survey?

Before more questions could engulf my mind, the girl spoke out, “Would you mind if I sit here?”

Instinctively, I looked around. Almost all the tables in the food court were taken.

Typical Americans. Polite and courteous when talking to strangers, I thought. It was like one of those other moments of polite interactions that I had faced with strangers here, like the girl who asked me to come under her umbrella while I was waiting for the bus in the pouring rain, or the heavy set guy who held the door open for me and offered to help me with my luggage, as I pushed them through.

But then my eye caught a couple of vacant tables at the end.

The girl seemed to follow my gaze and shimmied on her toes nervously. I gave her a momentary inquisitive look and replied back, “Uhm…well…the people here a little creepy.” She let out a nervous laugh and continued, “I just thought I could sit next to you…and do my work.” She smiled.

Wow! A pretty stranger wants to sit next to me, because I’m not creepy! Isn’t that something!

“Sure. No problem.” I smiled back.

“Thanks.” She said and sat down next to me. From the corner of my eyes, I could see her open her Macbook and start typing away on her keyboard.

Both of us silently typed on our respective computers, oblivious to what the other was writing about. I couldn’t help get the feeling that the girl was shooting furtive glances at me, since I was doing the same as well! Perhaps, both of us were just too curious to peek into the screen of the other. But we diligently continued with our work for about half an hour, until the girl closed the lid of her laptop and slid the machine back into her bag. I looked up at the big digital clock mounted on the wall. The time read 2:45. It was time for me to leave as well. I packed my bag and got up at almost the same time as she did.

Again my eyes met hers. With a friendly smile on her face, she replied, “Have a nice day!”

I smiled back, “You too!”

With that, both of us headed our separate ways…

When your smartphone conks!

“No no. Not union station, Washington! Give me union station Chicago!” I pounded my stubby fingers on the google maps application on my sleek and delicate Samsung Captivate smart phone. I was sitting inside my new temporary apartment (the place where I’d be staying for the next 3 months) and trying to plan my route to the Union Station, Chicago. The 3G network inside the apartment was very slow and I was beginning to lose patience. Finally, the map showed me the route.

“Okay, give me the bus timings.” I said out aloud. I gently tapped the button on my screen and patiently waited for the application to refresh itself. 30 seconds...60 seconds…90 seconds…nothing happened. “Oh come on!” I shouted and began pounding my thumb on the home button.

No response.

The touch screen interface seemed to have stopped working. “Oh great!” I thought. So I pressed the power button and waited for the usual pop up to emerge – ‘Turn off’ it said. Casually, I touched the pop-up with my finger. Nothing. “Oh shit!” I slapped myself on the head and held the power button pressed down longer, hoping that that would trigger an automatic shutdown. Nothing happened.

“What the hell!” I slammed the phone on the bed in frustration. It was time to proceed with the age-old time-tested strategy when it came to dealing with stubborn phones. I flipped the slender device and pressed my fingers on the back panel.

“How the hell do I remove the battery!” I cursed my phone and fidgeted around for some time with no success. I felt totally helpless. The bright blue screen of my phone said happily ‘Screen locked. Slide to unlock.’ It was almost as if it was mocking me, daring me to do something which both of us knew I couldn’t.

For the first time since I got this phone, I wished that I had my humble Nokia 3310 or Motorola L6 instead. The thing with smartphones is that they give you an illusion of power. They give you all these cool things like GPS, facebook, angrybirds…stuff that makes you feel awesome. But the moment they become stubborn and unresponsive, you begin to realize that you had much more power with say a Nokia 3310, which you could smash into the ground and re-assemble and get everything working back again. Smartphones are like Persian cats - smart, stylish and sophisticated. But they are not as faithful as a hamster which you could coerce into running on a treadmill.

Ok. So my phone wasn’t working now. What do I do? I thought. A sudden sense of panic gripped me.

Shit! How do I tell the time now?

How do I know which bus to take?

How can I tell when will the bus come to the bus stand?

I don’t know the address of my destination. It’s in my mail and I cannot access my mail!

Oh heck! I can’t even update my facebook status that my phone isn’t working!

I sat silently on the bed for a moment or two, trying to plan out my next move that would save me from this impending doom. It was then that I realized that my phone had begun to control my life. I was dependent on it like an addict on cocaine.

But why? I thought. Didn’t I do all those things without a phone? I could tell the time by wearing an extinct object that went by the name of ‘wrist watch’. I could ask the people around me about which bus to take. I could patiently wait at the bus stop for the next bus to arrive. I could use a payphone and make a call by which I could find my destination address. I could for once, pretend that facebook didn’t exist.

I laughed at myself and at the people who had become addicted to technology, so much so that they had begun to forget how to do things on their own.

With that thought, I wore my shoes, slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the chilly Chicago morning.