Taxi Drivers of Beijing

By PALLAVI AIYAR

A long queue of waiting taxis.

CHINA’s taxi drivers are a unique breed. In Beijing, they comprise the city’s most colourful cast of characters. They include sage political commentators; chain-smoking, malodorous cynics and garrulous would-be tourist guides. In a city not easily accessible to the non-Chinese speaking foreigner, taxi drivers often act as both a metaphoric and literal compass, dispensing words of advice and warning, as they zoom about the labyrinth-like roads, blissfully unaware of the effect their bold manoevres might be having on the passenger.

As an Indian who grew up in New Delhi in an anglecised, Oxbridge educated family, I spent most of my life in total ignorance about our gigantic neighbour just across the Himalayas. But when my long-term boyfriend, Julio, moved to Beijing, despite some misgivings, I applied for a job teaching newswriting in English so I could join him here.

I first arrived in China in September 2002, nervous and unsure and clutching a certificate that proclaimed I was a “foreign expert.” The document was cold comfort: at this point my Mandarin was non-existent and I felt far from an expert on anything! In large part, it has been the schooling of taxi drivers that has since enabled me to fashion myself to at least a fair approximation of a “Beijing ren. ”

The first time I sat in a taxi, I carefully enunciated the much practiced phrase Julio had patiently schooled me in, “Wo yao qu, Beijing Guangbo Xueyuan(I want to go to the Beijing Broadcasting Institute).” “Errrr, merr, rrr” the driver replied. Much bewildered by this masterful, if perplexing, display of growling, I tried again, making sure to speak in my most manicured putonghua, but the second effort met with much the same response. This was my first class in “Beijinghua”(Beijing accent), and I haven’t looked back since.

Taxis at a shopping mall.

In the ensuing months, through careful imitation of Beijing’s finest taxi drivers’, I have learnt to open my mouth to the bare minimum, and nonchalantly grunt “duoer qian?(How much?)” with such delicate perfection, that on hearing the query, cabbies usually go into paroxysms of giggles. I prefer to view this reaction as delighted laughter in appreciation of the unexpected authenticity of my local accent, although I suppose it is open to interpretation.

While their manners might sometimes leave a little to be desired, as does on occassion their sense of direction, Beijing taxi drivers have been my most consistent guides to the city. Apart from having been invaluable as guinea pigs on whom to try out my tone-deaf Chinese, they were also my first real contact with local Chinese outside the workplace, and continue to be my major source of chit-chat and “cultural exchange. ”

There is scarcely a foreigner who has not had to parry (and decipher) the inevitable, “ni shi(r) na(rr) guo(rr) ren(rrrr)?(Where do you come from?)” the prompt asking of which seems almost to be a requirement for taxi driver status. On hearing that I am Indian, the majority go into thoughtful silence and after a few minutes mulling over this unexpected turn of events, proffer a “Yindu de dianying..hen hao!(Indian films are very good).” This may or may not be followed by an enthusiastic singing session, usually of “Awara,” an ancient song from the 1950s that seems to have enjoyed greater staying power on this side of the Himalayas.

Beijing’s taxi drivers are a cosmopolitan lot, perhaps because they spend large parts of the day listening to the radio news. There is never a country (with the possible exception of Iceland) for which they don’t have reams of comment.

Cabbies were particularly excited to have me as a passenger in June, last year, when the Indian Prime Minister was visiting China. “We are both (India and China) ancient civilizations, developing countries with Asian traditions,” a driver wisely opined, on the occassion. “Forget the border problems. They are old. We should come together in peace and friendship,” he continued. By this point I was considering nominating him for Chinese government spokesperson, so superb were his oratory skills, when he paused and added, “You (Indians) have too many power cuts though and it was a waste of money to have built that nuclear bomb in '98 when so many Indians are starving.”

I then decided that nomination might be a little premature.

A Beijing taxi driver in her new uniform.

A year and half of sitting in the back of taxies, has taught me a lot about Chinese people. They may be a little rough around the edges and startlingly direct on occasion, as evidenced by the taxi driver’s second favorite question “Ni zheng duor qian?(How much money do you earn a month?)” But they have an honest curiosity and willingness to help that belied my preconceptions.

They are also infinitely resourceful and resilient. Being stuck on Dongzhimen Wai (Street), with the traffic moving slower than a snail might crawl is enough to get even the most hardcore Beijing enthusist down, but Beijing cabbies are stoic in the face of traffic jams. When once determined to get to the bottom of why even on a Sunday afternoon, traffic on Jianguomen Wai (Street) was at a standstill, I asked the driver “Why is there a traffic jam?” He answered simply, “Because there are a lot of cars.”