All users of taxis have stories about the drivers – how some are rude and some polite; how some get to the destination quickly and efficiently and others dither around not knowing the way at all, let alone the best way. GPS should help in theory, but not all drivers have it installed or are comfortable with it.
I catch taxis quite often, fortunately often paid for by a publisher or the place I am invited to appear at. If the driver appears approachable I make a point of asking him (rarely a she in the city, though it’s more common in the country) about himself. It provides a rare and acceptable opportunity to speak to a stranger and learn something about another person’s life – effectively research for a fiction writer. As most Sydney taxi drivers are not Australian born, I’ve heard scores of stories about how they’ve come here, from Africa, China, the subcontinent and the Middle East. Most have expressed themselves appreciative, especially of the peacefulness of Australia, although wishing their financial conditions were a little better.
It’s quite common to meet someone who has worked as a manager, a professional of some kind, a trained person, now unable to use his skills because of bureaucratic restrictions. One can only offer sympathy.
Some stories are intensely interesting and affecting. A Croatian told me how he was a good soccer player at home, though not quite at the top level. Arriving in Australia, he became sought after by many clubs and had a bright future until an injury at training dashed his hopes. A Lebanese driver who was very chatty asked me if I’d ever been a hunter. Entering into the spirit of the conversation I admitted that I had hunted rabbits a few times. I didn’t admit that I’d failed to kill any. He waxed enthusiastic about the hunting he did when he returned, periodically, to his village.
‘Wild goats?’ I enquired. ‘Wild pigs?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘birds … like your pigeons.’
I cherish a couple of stories told by friends who’ve driven taxis at various times. One recalled how, when doing the test for his taxi licence, he was doing well until the inspector said casually. ‘Look, I’m running a bit late, mate. Could you hurry it up a bit?’
My friend obliged and when they got back to the base the inspector said, ‘Sorry, son, you went over the limit a couple of times there. Try again in a week.’
Most drivers will tell you that they occasionally encounter ‘runners’ – people who jump from the cab and scarper without paying the fare. Another cabby friend recalled driving at night in Melbourne and picking up a fare about whom he was doubtful. At a point well short of what the passenger had first announced as his destination he said, ‘This’ll do,’ and obviously prepared to jump out. The driver knew the area, speeded up and came to a stop outside the Richmond police station. The would-be runner paid up. Must try to use that one day.
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