Phase 1:

Taxi talk

You should take the train, you know, the taxi driver suggested as he walked around the cab to get in.
From South Africa, I was on a trip to America and having just emerged from O’Hare airport, it was my luck to end up with an overly friendly taxi driver showing me his adeptness at driving in peak hour traffic by eagerly taking me to Down Town Chicago. This was my destination that afternoon where I was rushing to connect with the last Greyhound bus of the day.
The train, she is much better than the bus. She goes around the clock. No worries. She gets you there in no time. Where you going? he continued.
Green Bay, I offered.
He thought for a second or two.
Yeah, the train, she goes there too, he persisted.
Thanks, but I already have a pre-booked ticket for the bus, I said with as much finality as possible, My experience of the previous week was still fresh in my mind.
Being a lost Capetonian in a small town in Arizona, I asked the way to a building where I had had a meeting.

Around the corner, a few blocks down. You can’t miss it. Directions were drawn on a piece of paper and pushed into my hand. As easy as pie.

Scrupulously, I followed the instructions as I started down the road. I walked for a long time, an hour to be exact, before I relented, looked for the nearest telephone and called for transport. When this eventually arrived and picked me up, it promptly turned around and sped back along the way I had been walking! Maybe it had something to do with being in the northern hemisphere, but the turn left and turn right directions on the piece of paper clutched in my hand, definitely did not have the same meaning as what it had back home!

Changing pre-arranged plans and take a train instead of the bus? I somehow did not think so.

You Polish.

I looked back from staring out the window.

You Polish, hey, the taxi driver offered again, his eyes in the rear-view mirror challenging me to prove him wrong.

No, I said, surprised at what could possibly be the similarity.

Russian! He sounded hopeful.

No. I was amazed.

Ah, British! He was now guessing wildly.

Nooo. I smiled.

OK, then, Australian?

No. I had to laugh.

Then where you from?

Cape Town, I said with mock nonchalance. It was my turn to challenge him in the rear-view mirror. Does he know where this place is? The response never fails to amuse me.

Ah, Cape Town . . . he started with and air of worldly wisdom that only big city taxi drivers know how to display. Suddenly he faltered.

Cape Town? The realisation that he was actually not too sure about this name did not sit well with him.

Where this place?

South Africa, I smiled demurely.

The usual strange silence after making this announcement invaded the taxi. For some reason people never quite know how to respond to meeting a stranger from South Africa. If you watch closely, you will often see a flash of fear cross their eyes. Fear of the unknown, I have always wondered, and would meet this quizzical stare with a dead-on look that hopefully says, no, I do not carry any contagious diseases.

What exactly are the thoughts and images that shoot through their minds at that precise moment? Sometimes they are surprised that my skin is not black. At times, that I speak educated and not pigeon English. Often they see me as a woman of courage living and surviving in what they perceive to be an extremely dangerous country filled with lions and pythons or subjected to continuous bombs and battles. I suppose it depends on whether they are CNN followers or not, which opinion they will favour. There have also been open admiration of my ‘adventurous spirit’ of bravely venturing across the dividing line from third world into first world and do I know what television is! Africa! That’s dark ages primitive stuff, man! Once in a while, it is just something simple, like being amazed at how far away from home I am.

So, this place, South Africa, is safe to live there?

Ah, I thought, a CNN man, judging him.


Sometimes it is good, sometimes not so good, but, I shrugged my shoulders, either way, it is the most beautiful country I know, I answered, knowing I can talk for hours and hours about my love for Africa, its endless skies, rugged mountains, wild oceans and, like the Dalai Lama, I always want to add as well that it is a pity about the people messing it up. Studying the taxi driver’s profile, I decided that maybe he will not understand. So I left it at that.

Me, he offered, meeting my eyes in the rear-view mirror, me, I am from Palestine - Jordan, his eyes asking if I know where that is.
Palestine? Where’s that?, went through my mind, but I resisted. He did not appear to be the kind of man who would take the mockery of his persona lightly and as I was at his mercy to get me to the bus terminal on time, I just raised my eyebrows and said Oh?

Warming up to what must be his favourite topic, he settled back into his driver’s seat, macho position, one elbow on the door, casually driving with the customary two fingers forming a V around the steering wheel. The other elbow resting on the back of the seat next to him, the hand, with fanned fingers gesticulating wildly, emphasising every important point he made. Every now and again he would throw a casual look over his shoulder, wanting to make sure he still had my riveted attention.

Yeah, I live all over, but America still the best. He looked at me for affirmation and met with my best blank stare.

I live in Germany, he continued regardless, they make me feel like foreigner. I leave Germany. I live in London. London very good. But also, they make me feel like foreigner. I leave London. I come to America. I come to Chicago. Chicago make me free. Everyone in Chicago immigrant. I not feel like foreigner. I stay. Ten years I stay. It is good. America is good for me. See?

His free hand pointed out the window as if to prove his declaration of gratitude. I followed his gesture, and not having his sentiment, instead saw old grey-brown snow scraped into huge mounds under criss-crossing highways. The sky was filled with the silhouettes of tall buildings blocking the view of the sun. This must be limo-city too. A multitude of stretch-limousines with blackened rear windows were competing with delivery vehicles and saloon cars, all with hunched-over stony faced drivers sharing the six-lane highway with us. Chicago’s America is a fast life. Everyone vying aggressively for the next gap in the traffic. You snooze, you lose. We were in the middle of the slow-moving snake of daily bumper to bumper commute out of the city.

You tell me, where you work one week and have money to buy a car! Here, America, you work one week, you get $1000, you buy car cash. Just like that!
The wildly gesticulating free hand suddenly clicks its fingers in my face.

Just like that! A ’92 Caprice! Just like that!

Click! Click! He looked over his shoulder to see if I was impressed.

Oh?, was all I could think of replying.

What kind of work would give you $1000 a week? In South Africa that would be over R6 000 - in one week? Not many people earn that in a month even. So, what is he doing being a taxi driver then, I thought. Unless, of course, those were his wages . . . impossible!

A ’92 car in ’99? Who would possibly want that? Caprice or whatever else for that matter. Any car older than three years in America would be badly rusted due to the salt sprinkled on the snow that covers the roads in winter to prevent treacherous, slippery ice from forming on the tar. We all know salt attacks the snow. That is good. But, it also attacks anything metal, cars being a favourite. A ’92 car? I don’t think so. One thousand dollars for that is a rip-off.

No chance to reply though, the driver has already moved onto his next topic in his quest to educate his passenger from Africa.

Yeah, America, she is good. Here you buy house with no down payment. No down payment. You look for house. You find house. You move in. You pay at end of month. Just like that. Click! Click! the fingers went.

A quick manoeuvre across two traffic lanes to take a gap that could only have been big enough for a baby’s pushcart, was a momentary diversion. What do you think of that!?, he cocked his left eyebrow as his eyes locked with mine.

Well, you are onto a good thing here, it seems, I replied, choosing to stick to his conversation instead of commenting on his driving as I found myself clutching the door handle with whitened knuckles. His driving technique was too nerve-wrecking an experience to focus on. Getting him to continue with his monologue definitely kept my mind off personal safety.

Yeah, America, she is good. I am very happy. I just need wife. American girls no good as wife.

I looked up in surprise. In the rear-view mirror we locked eyes again..

Yeah, American girls, they just party. Dance with other men, you know. They like when you have money. Honey, you have some money, they say. You say yes, they say, let’s go some place. They spend your money. American girls? Naw. They all have job. They like have job. American girls they don’t stay home. They wear red lips and red plastic finger nails. First you think, oooh, what sexy girl! What she can do with that red lips and that red nails!! You take her to the club, you buy her drink. You think, ah, tonight will be good. You sit closer. She says, no, no, no, don’t touch!

For a brief moment he let go of the steering wheel. Anxiously I watched as he held up both hands, fingers wide, fluttering his eyelids, and mimicked in a high pitched voice: My lips! My nails! With a snort of indignation he corrected his driving and resumed his two-fingered driving position. She leaves red lips on the glass. You say, hey, why not you leave red lips on me? She laughs in your face. He shook his head.

These girls, they don’t cook supper. A furrowed brow and reflective pause intervened. American girls, they don’t cook, he stated with finality, with plastic red nails, they don’t even open cans, he grunted and nodded vigorously to support this.

A forlorn silence emanated from the front seat.

Then why do you not get a wife from Palestine? I asked, thinking of all the arranged marriages of the Middle East. Surely they can send you a good wife that will stay at home? That seems to be an important part. And cook your supper. I added. The eyes in the mirror gave me an accusing look. I missed something, I thought. Oh, yes. And don’t paint their nails red, I added in haste. I decided to omit the red lips part.

He nodded, happy that I understood.

That big problem, he sighs. My wife, she is Palestine.

I was totally confused. Have I not just had a conversation with a pair of impenetrable black eyes in a rear-view mirror who told me he has the car, he has the house, all he needs is the wife?

Yeah, my wife, she is Palestine. But Palestine girls, she don’t make good wife. She want to be like American girls. Party. Party. No good. Young Palestine girls have many boyfriend. She want to marry, she go to doctor and say, doctor, you must fix me, I am getting married, I must be virgin. The doctor, he makes much money. In one hour he fixes. The girl, she marries. She says to husband she has not had boyfriend, look she is virgin, and she holds up sheet. Every husband, he wants virgin. The husband, he is happy, he tells his friends. His friends, they nod their heads. His friends, they go laugh around the corner.

Silence in the car. The noise of late afternoon traffic had receded into a distant corner of my mind. I had to know.

So, where is your wife now? I asked the eyes in the mirror.

She with old boyfriend. He broke eye contact and with pursed lips briefly glanced out the side window. A touchy point, I thought. No-one likes being made a fool of.

What are you doing about it? I am intrigued.

The macho man re-entered the slumped shoulders. Arrogance oozed again.

Ah! My friend, he drives taxi at airport. You see him?

He looked to see if I remembered his friend. I did not. I shrugged my shoulders.

My friend, he has book with pictures of girls. With puckered lips and raised chin he sings: Beeeauuutiful girls. His free hand stroked imaginary long strands of hair next to his head. Gorrrrrgeous girls. The free hand outlined the shape of a buxom, slim-waisted girl.

The smile on his face and lilt in his voice told me the ‘painful’ experience of the dreadfully unfaithful Palestinian wife had already been forgotten.

With a teasing voice he described Girls doing this and girls doing that. He wriggled around in his seat, imitating various poses. The taxi swerving dangerously. The free hand with its fanned fingers dropped in limp-wristed feminine gestures, accompanied by what he thought was an appropriate ‘tst’, ‘tst’ sound.

Oh no, I thought, here comes a men’s-toilet-Playboy story!

Suddenly he laughed, lowered his voice conspirationally, and announced.

These gorrrgeous girls, they all look for husband!

Ah, mail-order brides, I sighed with relief. This I can live with. I once read an article about mail-order bride catalogues doing the rounds in Alaska where your chances of meeting a date were as low as the temperatures - zub zero. This mail-order business was hugely successful. Well, for a couple of seasons anyway. I suppose it can work in Chicago too. Where are these girls from?

He glanced over his shoulder, took a deep breath, puffed up his chest and, as if referring to royalty, hesitated, announced with aplomb: Russia!!

Oh . . . was all that could come out my mouth.

Yeah, Russian girls. Beeeaaauuutiful Russian girls, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ every time he stretched the word beautiful.

You know, these girls, they can’t find husband in Russia. Too many girls. My friend, he thinks like me. Russia good place to be. But Russia cold. Russia no work. So my friend, he goes to Russia to look at these gorrrgeous girls. In Russia they tell my friend, ‘You want girl, you buy plane ticket to America’. My friend, he thinks these girls they are pretty, they are young. Good to have girl like this. My friend, he thinks he is not pretty. He is old man. He thinks he marries girl in Russia, he buys plane ticket to America. He brings Russian girl to America. Russian girl sees beautiful young man in America. Russian girl leaves my friend to party with American man. My friend, he thinks he not keep Russian girl. My friend, well, he not marries. He comes back without Russian wife. My friend, he taxi driver at Chicago airport. He waits for business, he read book on Russian girls. Everyday my friend he dreams of Russian wife.

A feeling of expectancy hung in the car.

And you, I asked.

Ah, me? Me, I wait for Russian girl to come here. Me not fool like my friend.

Silence invaded the taxi cab. My double-crossing taxi driver from Palestine had a dreamy look on his face. Thinking of those gorgeous Russian girls, no doubt.
For a long while nothing was said. Thinking the topic was exhausted, I slipped into my own quiet reverie of people and places.

Hey, . . .
I looked up at this intrusion into my thoughts and noticed a strange look in his eyes.
What girls like from South Africa?

His question startled me and made me shift uncomfortably in my seat.

Oh, uh . . ., They’re pretty okay, I guess, wondering if he was maybe just cornering me into an African mail-order brokering business. It did make me think of my friends back home in Cape Town though and very quickly decided, no, he definitely will not survive.

Take the Clifton type, for instance. These girls are the equivalent of California beach babes. This time of the year they are spending every possible moment on the Clifton beaches rotating themselves in the hot African sun for the smooth even tan that their skimpy evening dresses will enhance. They may have the nails and the lips my taxi driver so admired, but with those he will just be plain putty in their hands. No, will not work.

Anyway, they choose their cars small and fast, their dogs big and bold and their men big and slow and this is not referring to their mental ability. Definitely will not work.

Then there is my dear loveable, huggable friend, who recently, in a moment of spontaneous mirth, exposed her deep secret of always wanting to be a heavy-duty truck driver. The horse-and-trailer type with 18 wheels to a truck. That is really big.

I always imagined myself driving this truck full speed up the Sir Lowry’s mountain pass, roaring through those corners with nonchalant ease, passing all the other struggling little toy cars on the way . . .

We all laughed at the comical image this conjured - the window down, her curly blonde hair whipped about by the wind, with her favourite pink lips, arm outstretched and pink nails waving to everyone she was leaving behind. A crazy picture. Yet, I did notice she got as far as acquiring the standard tear-drop Ray-Ban sunglasses all the truck drivers seem to wear. It is her dream, so what if she lives her fantasy every time she attempts that mountain pass in her little Toyota. No nonsense from her. Will not work with a Palestinian taxi driver either.

What about my holistic friends with rainbow crystals in their windows and gold fish in the lounge. No partying for them. Nine o’ clock in the evening is their bedtime as four in the morning they get up for meditation. Pulses and tofu are their mainstay. No good either.

Some women do not age well either. Their eyebrows become thin lines, their lips are either in a permanent pout or in an icy line of discontent. ith time, their bodies tend to double in size and they rule the house with a fat finger, flabby arms and the proverbial rolling pin! I do not see my Palestinian taxi driver having a fair chance in such a marriage. No, not good either.


I reckon you should wait for your Russian bride, I offered, hoping to close the conversation.

He contemplated this for a while, then, with that strange look in his eyes again, asked,

You come have coffee with me? I call you sometime?

I looked up in total surprise. Is this why he thought I looked Russian? I was shocked. Good thing we were pulling up outside the Greyhound terminal.

Uh. . . thank you but I don’t think so, I stuttered, clambered out the taxi and hastily retrieved my luggage from the trunk of the cab that had spontaneously jumped open, as if by pure magic, when we pulled up.

Smooth operator, were the words that shot through my mind as I quizzically viewed the scene.

You sure? I know great place. Smooth operator had taken up a position at the rear of his taxi cab, one foot on the fender, bent forward, his arm propped up on his raised knee, his hand supporting his chin. The other hand on his hip, thumb hooked into his belt. My number . . . he pushed a taxi receipt slip with his details on into my hand. Anytime you want, I come for you. What he must have thought was his most charming smile, creased his face. His left incisor flashed 24ct gold in the glow of the street light. It was not lost on me that he held this expression long enough to be sure I noticed the cost that had gone into such a smile. Maybe the $1000 a week was not a fib. You phone, I come . . . , he persisted.

Turning around I briskly walked into the terminal. Backing into the doors to pull my luggage through, I looked up. The lover of red lips and Russian girls stood there smiling, head cocked to one side, shoulders raised, palms open to the heavens. I had to try, he seemed to be saying.

Stunned, I realised all of this was quite possibly just an incredibly long lead-up to a Palestinian come-on. Going on a date in a taxi cab . . ! In the awkwardness of the moment, I could not help but also see the humour of it all.

Still shaking my head in disbelief, I climbed onto the waiting Greyhound bus. With relief, I noticed I was not the only passenger.

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