Norman Grindley/Deputy Chief Photographer
Jamaican taxicabs can be scary for the uninitiated.
I should've known that this was going to be weird. The car was missing a headlight and I could hear the engine rattling long before it came around the corner. Still, when the taxi pulled up, I was happy, especially since it was more than 15 minutes late. The driver, however, was quite pleased with himself and boasted about how fast he had driven to get there "on time".
I had poked my head inside when the car stopped, and glanced at the driver. He was huge, with a big head. Because he was so tall, he had to hang his head just so he could fit inside. He reminded me of those clowns who squeeze themselves into tiny cars at the circus. For a moment, I thought about telling him this but, when I sat in the car and realised that he could, perhaps, crush me with his thumb, I decided against it. Anyway, off we went. Our location: Spanish Town. Our destination: Kingston.
Pine leaves, furry cloth
Inside the car smelled like pine leaves and there was a furry cloth covering the seats. The windows were tinted and there was an air freshener, in the shape of a tree, hanging from the rear-view mirror. There was a yellow cloth tucked under the emergency brake and the driver, who goes by the moniker 'Number 7', kept taking it up to wipe something or the other in the car.
We sat in silence until Number 7 pulled on to the Spanish Town bypass.
"You know a from when di govament claim bout dem a go build up dah road yah? A fool dem tek poor people fah, you know? All dem do a promise and den dem nuh do not'ing," he said, looking at me for a reaction. I made a gesture with my eyes and I guess this encouraged him to go on, and on. "All dem do a thief poor people money and go pan vacation wid dem wife and dem ting deh. Dem only care bout themselves," he said.
Now, I'm sure that Number 7 went on further on the matter, but I was busy staring in front of me. Number 7 may be a good conversationalist, but his driving skills leave much to be desired. And, that's putting it mildly. Every time the car in front of his slowed down, even a bit, Number 7 would go into a tirade about how "these people take the driving ting as a play play ting". I didn't interrupt his ranting.
We were at a stoplight near to the hospital and before the light even went on green, Number 7 started tooting his horn and shouting for the driver in front of him to move his something or the other.
At more than 90 kilometres an hour, Number 7 shot across the bridge on his way to the Mandela Highway. What bothered me most was that while he pressed his foot on the accelerator, he remained calm, almost nonchalant about the whole affair. Meanwhile, I was sweating profusely and holding on tight to the fabric on my seat. My eyes were wide when I looked at him and said, as calmly as I could, "You can take your time, you know, I'm not really in a rush." Much to my consternation, this had little effect on Number 7, who now decided to strike up a conversation about the police.
"Every time dem waan seize man cyar. Is like dem nuh waan do not'ing else. As dem hold you and realise dat you nuh have no insurance, dem waan tek weh yuh cyar. Is what happen to dem people yah?" he said. I wasn't able to give a response. My eyes were glued to a woman ahead of us crossing the road with a baby in her arms. She was, by now, directly in front of us, and Number 7 showed no signs of slowing the car down any time soon. I was silent, but in my head I was screaming, "Lawd have mercy!"
In the nick of time
Luckily, Number 7 swung the car around the woman in the nick of time and then made some comment about "dem people yah who love run crass di road when dem see people a come".
I was really in no mood to argue with a burly man, but couldn't help telling him that he could have slowed down a bit sooner when he noticed that the woman was crossing the road. I should have anticipated his response.
"No man! You haffi shake dem up. Dem galang like is fi dem road. Dem fi know dat is cyar and truck man run road."
I didn't respond. There was little point, really.
By now, we were on Spanish Town Road. I remembered a newspaper article I had read about a week earlier which said that this road was a major crash spot last year.
I glanced at my watch and tried to convince myself that I would be at my destination and away from this maniac in only a few minutes.
"You see how di young bwoy win di competition? Yes man! Di woman dem gwaan like dem waan tek over everyting. Mi glad how di youth put har inna har place," said he.
I saw myself hurtling toward the back of a truck and whispered a prayer for the preservation of my soul after my impending death. With only one eye open, I breathed a sigh of relief as the car swung around the truck, missing it by mere inches.
"Dem company yah dat a redundancy di people dem now. Wah you really think a gwaan?" He didn't give me a chance to respond. "Is pure politics. All dem waan do is keep di people dem inna poverty. Marcus Garvey done tell dem," he said, while barely missing the tail of a dog that ran across the road.
"Di two phone company dem inna tings wid dem one another. People nuh realise dat di two a dem a work wid dem one another fi mek more money off di poor people dem," said Number 7. Ironically, his phone rang soon after and I wondered how much worse he could possibly drive, while distracted by a phone call. Luckily, he didn't accept the call and mumbled something about his babymother and money. I didn't care. I could see my destination now and, as the car came to a screeching halt, I thanked him and the heavens above for my survival.
I hopped out of the car and watched as Number 7, in his mobile death machine, shot down the road and out of sight.
robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com
