Mexican Cabbie

Confessions of a Mexican Cabbie
By Zain Deane, Freelance Writer

June 2007

I’ve been around the global block. Visited hotbeds of terror and conflict like Pakistan and Colombia and Newark . But when I stepped into a Mexican taxi, I felt my stomach shrink to the size of a walnut, and I said a silent prayer to Quetzalcoatl. See, I knew what I was getting into. My sister, who had recently moved to Mexico, and whom I was visiting, warned me about the cabs here.

There were good taxis and bad taxis, she said. The most reliable were the ones you had to call to come pick you up. These guys would ask relevant questions like “What are you wearing?” and “If you were an animal, what would you be?” and collect the person who most resembled the given description. The decent ones, always white cars with a red band, would merely try to take the scenic route when possible, padding their fares. The bad ones were a nightmare: you got in, gave an address, and settled back for the ride. At a predetermined stoplight, three guys would jump in with you, kidnap you, and take all your money. It’s a common racket in the city, and my sister told me to stay clear of the white and green taxis.

Armed with this knowledge, I went out into the city to see one of its more unusual landmarks: Chapultepec Castle. The trip there was a piece of cake. I called the taxi service from my sister’s apartment and enjoyed the view from the back of the car. My Spanish was impeccable, perfected by two years’ living in Spain, which meant I could somewhat understand the lingo of the common Mexican cabbie. But I made do with my crisp accent and the driver accepted me as a person of mysterious but non-gringo origins.

The castle was a somewhat ludicrous example of European opulence in the middle of an Aztec empire, but it made for an enjoyable morning. By noon, I was ready to meet my sister for lunch. And that was when I realized I didn’t have the phone number of the safe and secure taxi service. No matter; all I had to do was make it to the street and seek out a red-and-white cab. Unfortunately, these taxis had apparently decided to seek employment in another part of the gigantic city, because there were precious few on the road, and all these were occupied. Even the notorious green-and-white taxis that careened by were taken.

After almost 20 minutes of standing along the beautiful, broad avenue of the Paseo de Reforma, a dilapidated sedan screeched to a halt beside me. The engine was making peculiar noises, and I suspected that the car was being powered through sheer will. The driver looked sullenly at me, almost defying me to get in. And I stared at the bright green band running along its side. I had no choice. I was already late and my sister was a busy person. It was my last day in Mexico and I couldn't afford to waste time. With a deep breath, I got in, put on my best I’m-a-native-so-don’t-mess-with-me glare, and growled out the directions to my sister's office. The cab closed and we crawled three feet before the traffic stopped us.

An awkward silence sat with us. I could see the driver staring boldly at me, sizing me up. He was a diminutive man, and if I passed him on the street I wouldn’t bat an eye. In his taxi, he was terrifying. I ignored him and focused on the surroundings as we progressed. And then I realized that I couldn’t act like I was looking at the scenery, because that would peg me as a tourist. In total confusion, I ended up staring straight ahead, pretending to be engrossed in reading the license plate of the car ahead of us.

“Where are you from?” the question came so suddenly that I answered truthfully before I even realized I was speaking.

“Pakistan.”

In truth, I took his comment a bit literally. While I was born in Pakistan, I’ve spent most of my life abroad, and the last 20 years in the U.S. Still, in my home state of Florida, this response would more often than not generate a double-take, at the least. My cab driver simply continued to stare; I couldn’t tell if he was completely thrown by this answer, or if he was trying to remember how rich Pakistanis were. We traveled on, me doing my best to remain nonchalant, the driver chewing over this information.

“Are the girls pretty in Pakistan?”

I gaped at him. “Yes,” I finally muttered, waiting for masked hoodlums to leap from the trees.

“Prettier than in Mexico?”

That was an easy one. “Hell, no.”

“Me, I like Venezuelan and Colombian women.”

I seized on a mutual bond. “Colombian women are beautiful. I used to live there.”

And we took off from there. By the time we had conducted a biased and entirely unscientific (and yet not at all vulgar) survey of beauty throughout Latin America, we were enjoying each other’s company. The taxi chugged on, and at one point I grinned to myself in amazement at life’s ironies. Here I was, a potential threat to many Americans, sitting in the taxi of a man who I considered a potential threat, who turned out to be interested in me mainly for my knowledge of how the women in my country stacked up against the ones he knew about.

Eventually, we negotiated the city’s beyond-ridiculous traffic and reached my sister’s office. I thanked him and got out, feeling a little ashamed and a little humbled. The cost of the trip? $1.60.