Sunday November 11, 2007
A taxi driver’s journey
Culture Cul De Sac
By JACQUELINE PEREIRA
YOU must write about taxi drivers,” he had exhorted me a couple of times. “We have our side of the story, you know, not just what the papers like to report.”
He snorted, not too agreeably. From the people who don’t pay their fares to young late-night revellers throwing up in his cab’s spick-and-span interior, his tales were as inglorious as they were hilarious.
Taxi driving was a career that he came to late in life. Despite his initial apprehension, it turned out to be an occupation that suited him and filled his life with numerous people that he liked and eventually loved.
After early mishaps and mistakes, he became street-smart. He stayed away from nightclub routes, dark streets and alleys, and he learnt to gauge people. And, when torrential rainstorms struck and the city streets clogged up, he went home to wait out the rain.
Soon, he had corralled a coterie of regulars, most of them little old ladies who would appreciate a familiar face and a regular fare.
One was a Chinese woman who lived on her own in Old Klang Road, in Kuala Lumpur. She never missed her weekday-morning mah jong sessions in Jalan Alor. For RM10 (as she refused to pay more, even if the meter clocked a higher fare), he would drive her there and back.
Another woman, more generous, called for his service whenever she needed to leave home for her regular chores or a quick visit to an ATM when she needed cash.
His cousins – all elderly women, one of them my mum – often used his cab whenever their children were too busy to drive them around. In this case, it was more than just a ride, it was an opportunity to catch up with the latest family gossip.
His service for his regular customers began as soon as he got to the doorstep – way before the appointed time – in his pristine white shirt and black trousers, his short hair neat and trimmed, his face beaming and his demeanour accommodating. He was always courteous and helpful.
A ride in his cab would never be quiet or lonely. Early-morning trips to the airport were especially illuminating, but you’d need to have at least two cups of coffee to brace yourself for his enthusiasm.
As we did not meet all that regularly, he’d fill us in on the latest family goings-on, sprinkled liberally with his opinions and advice, even if it was unsolicited.
The latest family drama unfolded like a great five-course meal as he savoured each re-telling, peppered with funny anecdotes and his perceptions on life. He talked, he listened and, most of all, he engaged.
Before you knew it, you were at the departure lounge: bags unloaded, goodbyes exchanged and fare paid – with a little extra for the long journey. And he would wave us off without fail, every time.
He would pull out from the curb in his blue-and-white Proton Saga and drive back alone, in an empty cab lit only with his infectious smile.
About two months ago, the cabbies in his company decided to go on strike for a day to protest something or the other. He had to cancel his appointments with his regulars, and was given an unexpected day of rest.
Later that evening, the 51-year-old suffered a massive stroke that proved fatal three days later, even after major surgery.
At his wake, people from all walks of life turned up. Wreaths and flowers spilled out onto the street.
It wasn’t surprising that everyone who came to pay his or her last respects had a story to tell, a fond one. In church, every pew was filled and as the funeral progressed, many tears were shed.
He had been a simple and decent man. Unobtrusive and obliging, he did his job to the best of his ability. Always the livewire at every party, with a special gift of connecting with everyone, from newborn babies to the elderly patriarch. He provided public service in the truest sense of the words.
As the adage goes, you never miss something until it is gone. He had always been there, but a void is now felt where he once was and will never return.
This, Uncle James, is perhaps the story of one taxi driver that needed to be told. Rest in peace.
People, places and perceptions inspire writer Jacqueline Pereira. In this column, she rummages through cultural differences and revels in discovering similarities.
