Taxi

Some would say that I’m linguistically challenged.  Plain English is often a struggle.  Portuguese is entirely out of the question.  Despite the weight of historical evidence that points to the fact that basic language skills elude me, I have rehearsed a number of simple phrases, including: “Excuse me, you young rascals.  You will be able to tell from the expensive camera slung around my neck, the multitude of suitcases and the unfeasibly large denomination notes bulging from my pockets that I am a tourist.  It is 3am, there are no street lights in this part of town and no-one knows I am here.  I am lost.  Please could you direct me to the nearest representative of Her Majesty’s Government?” 

Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, it always seems to come out “Hey there Batty Boy, your breath smells. And by the way, your girlfriend is a slug.”

This is not the best basis for a conversation with a taxi driver.  Especially when I responsible for my family.  God help us all.  I have had to pick the lock of too many car boots, from the inside, to risk it with a baby in tow.  Thankfully at the airport, there is a system for morons like me.  Pre-pay taxis.  Genius.  And the girl behind the desk speaks English.  I am saved.  But I decide to make the effort with the correct pronunciation. 

“I’d like a taxi to the Marie-curie Hotel, please.
“Can I spell it?  Why yes.  M...E...R...C...U...R...E.  It’s in Pauline-is-tina.  P...A...U...L...I...S...T...A”
She nods at me.  There’s something familiar in her expression.
‘That’s thirty-five dollars, please.’
“Here you are”  I said handing over the exact money but adding humorously, “Keep the change.”
She does not laugh.  I put it down to the subtleties of the British wit and start to explain why it’s funny.  T tugs my arm.

Our cab has the capacity for one less suitcase than we carry.  Our driver improvises by balancing it on his lap.  Peering over the handles, he catapults the car forward.  He does not speak English.  He is apparently new to the city.  He reads the ticket carefully.  He shakes his head.  But he is determined: what he lacks in knowledge, he wants to make up for in velocity. We rocket down back streets with a movements that defy most of the laws of physics although seem to be compliant with local traffic regulations.  I sense he is attempting to reach 88mph at which point the Flux Capacitor will kick in and we’ll be magically transported through time to the right place.  Presumably after he has a work visa and a map of the city.

We call at three hotels in quick succession.  Clearly, he is working on a process of elimination.  We are in the world’s third most populous city; I wonder how long this might take.  I have had my eyes shut tight for the last ten minutes so it is easier to concentrate on the calculation.  It could be a very long night.  We have another plane to catch in two days so the possibility of staying at the airport starts to be an attractive option.

As we hurtle down another unpaved, unlit road, his phone rings.  It is not to hand or in sight and he devotes his complete attention to finding it.  Impressively, we do not slow down at all.  After a few minutes with his head buried under the dashboard, he emerges with a mobile clamped between his teeth.  Resting it on top of our suitcase, he starts screaming furiously.  I cannot tell if he is shouting at his controller, his wife or the gang that will demand a ransom for three hapless tourists and a baby. 

I not entirely sure of the contents of the conversation but whoever was on the other end seemed to convince our driver of something.  He hurled the phone aside as he made what would have been a hand-brake turn if only he could have reached around the luggage.

We only called at two more hotels before arriving at ours.

‘Lateteen dollar, peas’
“We’ve already paid”
‘Yes, lateteen dollar.’
I resort to Universal English.
“I HAVE PAID.  THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS.”
‘No.  Lateteen.”

He pointed to a chart of hieroglyphics in the cab.  He stabbed at it with his finger.
‘Lateteen dollar.’

I looked at my ashen family.  And paid.

Comments

[Mrs RW]

Wow! When you travel, you TRAVEL! Brazil, no less... Aren't there any beaches closer to home? Say, the Cote d'Azur? Hope you all are having a wonderful time!

[Carlton]

I think we got on the wrong 'bus, Mrs RW. Thankfully I always carry a beach towel with me. c.