It was mid-morning when I got into the small late-eighties Toyota taxi which I had flagged down outside of my parents house in Abu Dhabi, the capital city of the oil-rich sheikhdom called the United Arab Emirates. I had just accepted a role at a prominent software vendor back in Canada. With three weeks until my start date, I decided to take a last-minute vacation to visit my parents in the UAE.
Needless to say, I was on a mental high, enjoying the place where I had grown up and will always remain fond of. In the years since I had left, my father's job saw him transferred from Dubai to the capital, about an hours drive and much the same image of a prosperous city basking in year-round sunshine. The real-estate and building boom that had swept Dubai, mysteriously caused the living costs across the entire country to sky-rocket.
Just about the only expenditure which had not changed in price, was the Abu Dhabi taxi fare. Taxis in the capital are extremely inexpensive and can shuttle you just about anywhere within the confines of the city for a meagre fare, usually under 3 US dollars. This low overhead, coupled with all the free time in the world, allowed me to remain comfortably mobile.
It was under these circumstances, that I boarded what would turn into the taxi ride from hell.
One of my favourite past-times when I travel is to chat with local taxi drivers in the UAE. As the years go by, I remain nostalgic about the people and places of the UAE, reminiscing of times past when I grew up in Dubai. Most taxi drivers in the UAE are from my native Pakistan and Iran. My conversations would usually revolve around their background and how they find life living in the UAE, interesting cab rides they have had, politics etc
My first impressions of the driver at the helm of this particular taxi were of awe and inspiration. Not that I normally care to pay much attention to the physical looks of taxi drivers in the middle-east, but I admit I was quite taken by the bookish and very handsome features of the Pakistani driver.
"Iranian market chalo yaar", I said in no particular tone, asking to be driven to the local Iranian market, a teeming array of small shops which sold cheap merchandise from Iran.
He was clearly a pashtun from the northern tribal areas, where the Pakistani government is embroiled in a bitter geurilla war. Dressed in a traditional shalwaar kameez dress, he had dark, coral-green eyes and strikingly handsome features. He carried a well-groomed religious beard and a curly, dark mass of healthy hair locks. With a strong, well-built physique, he had a look on his face which was a blend of wise serenity and stern discipline.
Soft verses from the Quran wafted through the taxi on a tape deck, as we drove toward our destination.
"Aap Pakistan sai hein?"
"Gee, Pakistan sai", he replied.
I wasn't sure what to make of him. A religious man, an expatriate worker who had left his family in his village at home and now found himself in a foreign country where he neither spoke the local language, nor earned enough to afford anything more than a meagre lifestyle, though oblivious to the rich sorroundings because he had rejected materialism and chose to live in the Shadow of the Lord.
A true man with little wordly possessions, rich in moral character and uncompromosing on his right to live as a free man. Believe me, he didn't look like he could care less for what iPhone version all the kids were carrying.
I continue making small conversation with my new friend, until suddenly, a moment of inspiration overwhelmed me. I had to share his story with the world, I thought to myself. People had to see his very unique and different angle toward life. I would make a pictographic biography of him and post it on a blog or website.
"Turn the car around", I said to him in urdu. I needed to go back home to retrieve my camera.
I explained to him that I was a citizen journalist who captured interesting moments in life, and that I wanted to write a story about him, complete with photographs of him driving through the city, going about his daily business.
He laughed gently at my suggestion and said very little. Other than a glimmer of friendly curiosity in his eye, my gentle giant of a friend agreed to go along with my ploy, as if obediently taking orders.
We backtracked to my parents house and I asked him to wait while I retrieved my camera. I offered to deposit some money for assurity while he waited, but he waved me away.
It would be upon my return, that things were to take a dastardly different turn. You see, I couldn't find my camera and searched for it everywhere. I rummaged through my luggage and everywhere else in my room, aware of my friend waiting patiently outside, afraid he would drive away and leave me disappointed.
I was so determined to get my story done, that I decided to opt for a disposable camera which I could buy in almost any store.I grabbed a pen and writing pad and ran back outside to discover the taxi still waiting with the engine running.
As I climed into the back seat and explained my situation, that we must stop to buy a disposable camera because.......I paused for a moment as I noticed there was pin-drop silence.
I had kept my driver waiting a bit too long and he was furious.
"Kitna deyr lagaya!", he yelled, complaining he had waited 15 minutes.
I was a bit perplexed at his inability to realise that it was a metered taxi, thus all the more to his benefit. As I climbed into the back seat and explained the obvious logic, my mythical driver slammed on the accelerator with half my personal body on the outside and the door still open.
I fell yelling against the back-seat, wide-eyed and terrified because I knew what I had precipitated; the infamous, uncontrollable anger of a pathan tribesman.
"Your meter is still running isn't it?", I explained in the rush of excitement that gripped by-standers and other motorists.
My comment only served to infuriate him further. With a single motion of his arm, he slammed on the meter to erase the fare.
"I don't need your money!", he yelled in urdu.
I held on for dear life, not uttering a single word and pressed into the backseat of the taxi, terrified and unsure of what was happening.
I recalled the urban legends we heard of pathan taxi drivers, ever loyal to their tribal code and self-honor, which was beyond the comprehension of ordinary citizens such as me. Stories of passengers being beaten, rich or poor, at the slightest offense perceived by a pathan driver, were too numerous to count.
I listened intently as my driver hurled the filthiest insults at me, all the whilst driving erratically and at break-neck speed through the city streets. I was painfully aware that I had no mobile phone on person and that my only hope of getting out of this mad situation was to jump out of a moving vehicle.
'Pakistani Taxi Driver Kills Compatriot', the newspaper headlines would read.
The more I reasoned with this man, the angrier he seemed to get, as he changed lanes and switched gears. Dear God, why must such things always happpen to me, I thought.
Ten minutes passed of what can only be described as sitting on a roller-coaster without safety straps.
And then, just as quickly as it all started, it suddenly stopped.
"Iranian market", declared the voice behind the wheel.
I stared silently ahead, my mouth gaping and my mind numb from the receeding effects of adrenaline. With the slow speed of a zombie, I climbed out of the cab and reached into my pocket.
I heard the man behind the wheel mutter something to the effect of an apology and silently drive away. I didn't even realise he had dropped me off at a small shipyard, on the outskirts of the city (It all happened so fast).
A part of me watched in awe as the car drove away. I supppose I have always admired the uncompromising attitude toward self-freedom that pathan tribesman always carry with them. With all the trappings of modern life, the cost to us has always been exactly that; trappings.
To witness a soul, oblivious and free from the materialistic chains of life, has always left me with a profound sense of wonder toward the bigger picture called life.
I never got to take a picture of my long-lost friend or learn anything about him. My family and friends mocked my tolerance of what they simply perceived as bad attitude worthy of calling the police (ofcourse, in my version of the story, I had grabbed the driver by the collar, refused to pay and only let him go after he begged forgiveness)
I've always believed that things happen for a reason.
So to my friend in the Abu Dhabi taxi, whose number plates and driver badge number remain a fleeting glimpse, I came through on my promise that I would share your story with the world (albeit, in my own way and terms).
Long live the notorious Dubai-pathan-taxi-wala and cheap chewing tobacco. Drive safe!
