|
Member
Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: Cali, yo!
Posts: 20
|
Non-Existent Seatbelts
Non-Existent Seatbelts
There is always something dangerous about this city – something mysterious and unexplainable that leaves me feeling on edge, and wanting more, so much more. I can smell it, the overpowering scent of smoke from the deafening factories, cheap cigarettes mixing with the trash thrown lazily on the streets, and the pungent smell of live fish flopping in the open markets. I sign, and continue pushing my way through the overcrowded city. Shoving my way through the crowd and ignoring the glares of several indignant pedestrians I quickly identify as foreigners, I chuckle to myself, my mind self-consciously pitying them. At the rate they’re going, their slow, rhythmic steps with the crowd, they’re going to be lost in no time.
Tearing my mind away from the waddling foreigners, I quickly scan the litter-filled streets, red and yellow-white lights flashing as each occupied cab speed by as though they are the White Rabbit of Alice in Wonderland. Then I see it: a cab turning towards the curb. I rush towards it, with a hoard of others, men, women, and children alike, beside. The lucky passenger inside steps out, and is instantly ambushed by an old lady beating the people around her with an old walking stick. She makes an attempt to get in to the cab, but a boy about the age of no more than 10 years slides in before her, sticking his tongue out in response to the angry looks the others are giving him. The rusty-red cab sped off, exhaust coming out in puffs from the old, worn Santana.
The mass is silent again, watchful pairs of eyes scanning the streets for a cab that have the words “empty car” displayed. A flash of red, and a metallic teal taxi shrieks to a stop at the side of the curb. I run towards it, sliding in the cab as someone opens the door and attempts to board the cab. The passenger in the previous cab has not even gotten out the car yet, her fur coat slightly damp from the heat. I smile at my achievement, even as the angry voice of the man (who had inadvertently opened the door for me) drifted through the glass. In this city, if you want anything, anything at all, you have to fight for it. I learned that when I was just a toddler, waddling around and sitting in my mom’s basket on her old, abused red bike that had replaced the previous stolen purple one.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked in Mandarin, leaning back and looking at me, his face wrinkled and his beady black eyes staring down at me. I hesitate, before blurting out, “The Renaissance Hotel,” in the native dialect of Shanghainese, hoping he would understand. I do not know Mandarin well, and prefer to use the local dialect.
“Renaissance Hotel?” he responds in Shanghainese, and I mentally sigh of relief, flashing him a quick grin. He leans over to the vacant seat next to his (that the furred lady had previously occupied), and flicks the “empty cab” sign down, thus starting the meter. The numbers 10.00 flash red on the meter as I relax against the coarse white cotton seating that covers the fake black leather underneath. The car smells of a mixture of cheap cigarettes (even though cigarettes are not allowed in cabs), that new-car smell of polished leather shoes and a strong overdose of expensive perfume left from the animal-killing woman. It puzzles me why the fur-clad passenger before me would be taking a cab rather than a privately owned BMW, but then she might simply be one of those high-status wannabes.
My musings are stopped by a quick lurch, and the cab is off, speeding on the road. I slam into the seat in front of me, thankful for its soft texture breaking my lurch as Newton’s 1st Law of Motion came in play. I hang onto the side handle, cursing the taxi cabs for not having seat beats in the back seat. With another lurch, we cut in front of another indignant taxi driver – narrowly missing crashing into him by what I could assume was only a few centimeters. The driver behind us, in his off-white cab, honks angrily at us, its sound contributing to the one-tuned orchestra of other irritated honking cars. I feel as if I am in the middle of a pond where the mother ducks are calling to their children.
We turn onto the freeway, and suddenly we accelerate to a terrifying 150 kilometers per hour. I glance out at the blurbs of color racing by as the taxi driver speeds along the fast lane, obviously thrilled that there are only a few cars on the road. I notice dully that there are no speed limit signs that graced the highways and freeways of China, like in America, that insured no crazy driver like this would drive so quickly.
But then, that was the custom in this part of the world. If you could speed, you sped. My heart rate quickens as we pass a large van, a ‘bread-car’ as the natives call it, and once again miss it by a few centimeters. Idly, I wonder how elderly adults could stand this high speed, as adrenaline pump through my veins, and not die from a stroke.
“You have to take a blood pressure test to see if you are worthy of driving,” the taxi driver chuckles at my ignorance, “That’s why many people prefer to take taxis rather than drive on their own. Don’t worry though – I’ve never crashed in my life and I never intend to. It brings down the stars on my rating.” He motions to the identification standing on the dashboard, yellowed laminated paper containing a much younger picture of him and his identification number. Underneath the number are four blue stars, indicating his rank. I nod, smiling politely. This is probably the highest-ranking taxi I’ve ever been in. The average seemed to be from one to two stars, but I’ve been in taxis where the driver had no ranking. I actually had to give him the directions to the place I was going rather than just tell the driver the location name.
I twist the window open a bit, and let the wind blow in my face. It is cold – a few Celsius below freezing – but the smothering smell of cigarette and that trashy, pungent smell is still there. It is around three in the afternoon, and the skies were still gray. It may have contributed to the fact that it was predicted to rain soon, but my grandmother had exclaimed, “Look at that blue sky!” the summer before, as though it was a treasure she rarely saw.
I realize I like the feeling of the clouds softly smothering us as we pass a green-and-yellow Ke De. The driver speeds crazily along, loop after loop, until he suddenly stops. I frown, and look around at the teal, green, white, red, and even the classic yellow taxi cabs (and a few expensive BMW’s and bread-cars scattered in here and there) all together, at the most a few centimeters apart. There is even an ambulance, alarm blaring, in the traffic. The lanes are extremely narrow here, since land was expensive. I stare at the child in the car next to mine, pressing my warm forehead against the chilly windows. The window instantly fogged up, and the child laughs as his mother stares at me as though I belonged in a mental institution. I shrink back in my seat, and stare at the long column of cars ahead, my eyes glazing over the meter. It read 13.00.
“Shit,” the man openly curses, not minding that a 13-year-old child is sitting in back, “We’re going to take this exit here, then take a few local roads to get there, okay?” he asks, not glancing off of the road. If he did, he probably would crash into the expensive BMW ahead of him.
“Sure, I don’t know the roads…” I whisper softly, terrified that I would scare him into lurching forward and crashing. He nods, and quickly turns to get off the fast lane. We efficiently arrive on the local roads as I roll down my window again, the rich-sweet smell of cooked buns, meat, and sweet potatoes entering my nostrils, saliva slithering in my mouth as though I could actually taste them. I pause, bracing myself for a sudden stop when I see the red light and nearly faint when the driver carelessly speeds through.
My dad’s coworker had once told me that the drivers in China took streetlights as suggestion rather than law. I giggle as we reach the other side of the street safely, realizing the truth of the statement that the Hispanic man had made.
The driver stops in front of the hotel as a chauffer holds open the door for me. I grin, giving him the fare and exiting the taxi. I stand outside of the hotel I am staying at, jovial as the cab speeds away.
I had forgotten the feeling of putting on seat belts after returning to the States, but it is soon reestablished. I am walking on the road and breathing in the sweet, fresh, air of America as the cars speed by leisurely. A pudgy child-finger points at me as the cars wait for me to cross the road. I know I’m in the center of attention here, in a world where practically no one walks. I bow down my head and rush across, hating the attention.
Taxis are so much better than conventional cars.
__________________
Meep. o_o
|
Like I never actually ridden on a taxi alone, etc. 
