By OLIVIER ROOS

Beijing's red fleet. Olivier Roos

AS on most weekends, last Saturday, I took a taxi downtown to Dongzhimen, Eastern Beijing city. I was going to meet some friends for dinner at one of the restaurants on "Guijie", a gourmet street known throughout the whole capital. Unfortunately sections of it have, like so many other congenial spots in this city, already become victim to the wrecking ball.

If you want to get anywhere in reasonable time in this Moloch, you have no other choice but to take a taxi. Unlike on the bus or subway, you can't pass the time in a taxi by looking at the other passengers. For the duration of your journey, however, you share a common destiny with the driver. The worse the traffic conditions, the more it seems that you have in common. Taxi drivers are generally great for a chat, and not just about the weather or the traffic. Cab conversations give me an insight into the lives of very different people that I would normally never get to meet. I guess the same is true for them.

And so, last Saturday. The driver was young, perhaps around thirty years old. As is so often the case, the conversation started with his comments on my height. I must acknowledge that it is not very often in China that people come across somebody measuring 1.96 meters, and I am consequently asked about this with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. Before long, the driver began to ask the usual questions about my reasons for being in Beijing, and about my origins. "I am Swiss," I answered. The driver was taken aback, saying that I didn't look like it. I wanted to know whether he had driven a lot of foreign fares in his car. "Yes," he said, explaining that two had been Swiss, but that they looked nothing like me. His puzzled expression cleared when I explained to him that my Asian looks are due to my mother being Indonesian.

He added hastily that he found Swiss people quite ok -- as compared with Americans, who are not to be trusted. One of them once tried to cheat him by giving him a foreign coin instead of the 18 yuan on the meter, saying it was worth just as much. My driver had to get out of the car to get his money, which was "mafan" -- bothersome, annoying. That was when he fell out with Americans.

He continued that he preferred not dealing with Russians either, but did not elaborate any further. To him, the most likable people are the British. One evening, an elderly lady got into his taxi and wanted to go back to her hotel. When they arrived, she handed over a 50-yuan bill for the 23-yuan fare. He usually makes sure he has plenty of small denomination bills for the day, but that evening he had simply run out, and was not able to give her any change. The lady generously told him to keep it. Since then, he thinks highly of the British.

We chatted during the whole journey. I thought about how people from completely different walks of life meet in a taxi. I learn something new about life in Beijing almost every time I take one. For the driver, it must be like a window, as it gives him the opportunity to know about the living conditions of totally diverse people, and influence his world-view. Taxi drivers probably know best what it means to be a Beijing dweller.