Taxi Adventure
Yet another driving related post via Brandt (Disclosure...this was written and experienced by Brandt I take no responsibility for the mental picture you will have in your mind after reading this gem)
Well yet again my cheapness has caught up to me. I was asked by my supervisor to take trip to visit my drilling rig which is offshore in the Arabian Gulf (NOT the Persian Gulf, apparently). I had two options: drive myself two-and-a-half hours or take a company-paid taxi to the airstrip in Tanajib. Why would I spend my own money on fuel ($0.16/L) and put 500 unnecessary kilometers on my ride? Why you ask? Hindsight being 20/20 at this point: I could have quite simply taken my life into my own hands rather than placing it in a 75 year old local who’s glasses lenses resembled the bottoms of Coke bottles.
It all started on Saturday afternoon when my wonderful cabbie called me confirm my pick up the next morning. By the way, I still don’t have a clue what this guys name was. On the phone, his English was alright and we agreed to a plan after I dropped every adjective and every other word. The next morning: no English whatsoever. We started our journey bright and early just as the sun was rising over the Gulf and headed from Al Khobar to Tanajib. Just outside of Dammam we pull into the gas station. I quickly look at the clock; nope not prayer time for another four hours. Look over at the fuel gauge in the 2002 Ford Crown Victoria; 3/4 full. What the heck is going on here? Pretty sure at this point that this is the end of the line for me. Somewhere between my primal fear and deep set paranoia we get our fuel topped up and carry on. The cabbie mumbles something incoherent at me, chuckles and then grabs a sip of his strange looking coffee. Back on to the highway we go and the cabbie confidently lines up the Ford emblem on his hood with the dashed white line on the road. You got ‘er folks; one car in two lanes. Pretty common sight around here. Thankfully there aren’t many other vehicles on the road other than the heavy-haul transports. As we approach each one he honks twice and mutters “ooooh Ali Baba”. “Ali Baba” I think, hmmm must be the trucking company. After this happens about a half dozen times I attempt to ask “Him, Ali Baba?” as we approach another transport. He says to me “oooooh Ali Baba. Ali Baba Pakistani”. Then it clicks with me and I think “come on, really? He can’t really mean that”. So I ask the guys at the rig; yep he meant it. Brutal. Just brutal the amount of prejudice out here. Anyways, we carry on and the fog starts to roll in. Cabbie hits the hazards and turns on his headlights. I’m thinking “alright, he may not be able to stay in his own lane but he knows his proper safety measures. Good man. Hey wait a minute, now your hood ornament is lined up with the yellow line on the shoulder. What’s going on here?!? I then look over and the speedometer needle is pointing straight at me in the passenger seat at which point I notice that it’s just past the 140 km/h mark. I’m thinking “whoa whoa whoa” and the primal fear starts to set in again. We are now passing everything on the highway doing 150 km/hr in the fog. So I say “schwaya schwaya” which apparently means slow down. He mumbles something again and takes it down to a reasonable 120 km/hr. Good thing too because some other bright person decided that they would pull over onto the shoulder and wait out the fog. We didn’t miss him by much but I’m thinking the difference of 20 km/hr made a bit of a difference. The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful relatively speaking.
Fast forward after making a quick trip to the rig and guess who’s waiting for me at the airstrip? Ding ding ding ding…you’re a winner if you guessed the 75 year old local with Coke bottle lenses. In we hop back into the Crown Vic and I notice that buddy’s seat belt is still bucked in when he hops in. Interesting, I think. The he puts the shoulder strap across his chest while leaving the lap belt secured. This guy is no dummy. Without a word we take off because we both know that neither of us understands the other person. Not long after we leave the airstrip we encounter camels on the highway. I classified this as a third world problem. You’d think that they might pick up speed as the mighty Crown Vic approaches. Nope. We stop and let close to a dozen cross the road. I’m guessing that they wouldn’t have stopped if we didn’t stop. About a mile down the road we see their farmer riding on the back of another one. I’m guessing that farmer Ahmed let his herd get away from him. Pretty impressed how he could stay on the back of a camel going mach-chicken…er…more like mach-camel.
We carry on and it’s getting pretty close to prayer time so we pull into the next truck stop. The cabbie grabs a tissue from his box on the dashboard zips out, heads into the toilet and is back two minutes later. So I’m thinking “geez, that was pretty quick pal but, hey, this is your thing not mine”. Back in the car we go zipping down the road but next thing I know we’re pulling into the next truck stop. By now I think I’ve got this figured out. I look over and we’ve got 1/2 a tank. Guaranteed we’re getting fuel this time. Nope. We drive right past it. Ok, next up is the mosque. For sure, its gotta be. He cleaned up at the last truck stop and is going to pray a this one. Makes perfect sense. Nope. Grabs a tissue, hops out and heads to the toilet. Bingo. My cabbie had some bad shawarma and it’s making it’s way through. Poor fella. So we carry on and traffic is just getting more and more wild as we get closer to the main city. He’s pretty intent on straddling the line between the middle lane and the fast lane. Yes, it is the fast lane here. It is not the passing lane. The passing lane is the shoulder. We race on down the road and I see a flat deck truck hauling what’s left of a Ford Expedition. Might have been an Explorer or Edge now that I think about it. All I could really make out was the Ford logo. The thing was destroyed. I couldn’t see any blood the seats but all of the air bags had definitely gone off and it was a disaster. Always nice to see when you’re not in control of your own fate. Anyways, we hit a construction zone and the lines disappear. Next thing I know there is a lot of honking, a lot of shouting in Arabic and lots of hand gestures that I’m going to remember for my next morning commute. My life flashes before my eyes and I literally close my eyes because I’m pretty certain that something terrible is going to happen. Must’ve scared the cabbie something fierce because next thing I know he’s pulling over on the side of the freeway (in rush hour), grabs a tissue, hops out, and walks to my side of the car and in clear view of my side view mirror. Next thing I know he’s pulled up his thob, pulled down his under pants and is squatting (good depth by the way) behind the car. All dignity for this fellow is now gone and I’m stuck between shock, awe, being slightly impressed and complete/utter embarrassment. Cars are honking as they go by and this guy just gives them a little wave. If we were on speaking terms I would have asked which restaurant he ate at so I could avoid it in the future…but we’re not. We’re only 20 minutes from my apartment and I’m thinking “geez, what if he needs to go again when we get there? What’s he going to do? Poop on the ground in the visitor parking spot? Maybe I should offer to let him use my toilet?”. Who am I kidding, he didn’t even know what I was talking about when I said “camel” earlier. There is no way he is going to understand “Excuse me sir, I have realized that you may be experiencing some loose bowel issues this afternoon. Would you like to come and massacre my toilet?”. Never mind. I sign his piece of paper showing that he actually drove me somewhere today, say “shukran” (thank-you) and promptly head straight to my own bathroom. To wash my hands. With bleach. Followed by the longest, hottest shower of my life. With more bleach.
Two points to remember and live your life by. First, there are three types of service: good, fast and cheap. You can never have all three. This service was extremely fast and cheap but it was far far far from good. “Scarred” may actually be a better word. Second, a cheap man pays twice. I may not have paid with money but I certainly paid in other more in-tangible ways. From now on I will be driving myself to Tanajib for all future rig visits.
Good times, good times.
Sunset from Brandt's Rig
