taxi

Cathy and I step out of the Sydney air terminal onto the taxi rank. An small officious man makes us stand at bay 10. A taxi races to a halt in front of us and a cheery Chinese driver hops out, pops the lid and jigsaws or four bags into place in the boot.

I gesture to Cathy to sit in the front seat: she is senior to me in the MM hierarchy; she’s the presenter of the professional development we’ve come to Sydney for; she has a Cabcharge card and I don’t.

The driver tries to engage Drive but everything dies: the engine, the nav-screen, the ticking fee indicator and the dashboard lights. The driver apologises profusely for the death of his taxi. Cathy and I get out and into the next cab in line. The driver on our journey out to Parramatta is a Sikh.

Our driver in the morning to the presentation venue is a silent Indian, almost as much in the dark about the venue, Old Government House, as we are. We circle it twice before penetrating the secrets of its access.

Next morning our driver is Middle Eastern and in the afternoon, Barry, an Armenian who has plied his trade on Sydney streets for 35 years, chats and jokes with us all the way to the airport. He ducks off motorways into narrow suburban back streets, assuring us of five or ten minutes time saved.

Our driver in February when in Sydney to present SKIPS to school guidance officers is a Scot who has also been here 35 years, driving cabs, and never been out of Sydney. I suspect he’s never got out of the cab. His accent is as thick as a Glasgow docker’s burr.

Arriving back in Melbourne after my first interstate MM trip to Adelaide a month ago my driver is an Eritrean. He calls his base constantly but unsuccessfully on a mobile phone then tells me he cannot take me to home to Croydon: he must hand the cab over when his shift ends at five. I tell him to drop me at Southern Cross and ask him about his country.

I prefer not to use taxis. The cost seems unconscionably exorbitant even though the drivers are piss-poor. Sometimes there’s no alternative; and sometimes someone else is paying.

  

Cathy asks our Sikh driver on the way to Parramatta how many people sit in the front passenger seat. About fifty per cent he tells her. Do more men or women sit up front? He’s not sure. In fact, as he reflects longer, he’s not sure about anything.

We leave his taxi unenlightened and step into the hotel foyer. Hotels, another story altogether.

Rock on.