I will not get into a cab driven by a Pasthun. It's not as if I have some longstanding, ingrained prejudice against Afghanistan's largest ethnic group (I've never met one before). It's because a) they don't speak English OR Arabic, b) they don't know where they're going and c) decades of war have left the cabdrivers with a sort of fatalist world view; if their reckless driving kills their passengers, God willed it.
Afghan Cab Driver Experience One: After completing the health check in Abu Dhabi, about fifteen of us cram into a minivan (one member of our group later concluded that this was not, in fact, a taxi, but just some guy who owned a bus). It was 118 degrees outside, but somehow hotter in the "cab". I'm sitting in the front, next to an Indian expat who had gotten in the "Taxi" before us, is late to work, and is banging on the seat, screaming first in English, then in Arabic, and finally in Urdu, none of which the driver understands (I grasp this because he is looking back at the American/Canadian contingent like he's waiting for us to interpret - taking his eyes off the road for a prolonged period). After about an hour of the guy driving us to the wrong hotel, through the wrong side of the city, and past the screaming Indian's workplace several times, M in the front seat spots our hotel. It looks reasonably close. We ask to be let out. The driver blocks traffic as he tries to communicate his phone number to us, in case we ever need his competent services again. We then walk the mile or so back to our accommodations.
Afghan Cab Driver Experience Two: The best of the worst. My only issues with this guy were a) I have lived here two weeks, have a terrible sense of direction, and I had to tell him where to go, and b) Driveways and parking lots confused him, as he stopped several times in the middle of the one lane road and asked if he should keep going to the front of the hotel. He even stopped to ask a white guy walking out of the hotel how to get to the entrance the guy had just walked out of.
Afghan Cab Driver Experience Three: The straw that broke the camel's back (Ha! Camel pun). So we are trying to walk to one of the oases, which looks like a reasonable distance from the hotel. It's only about 100 degrees that morning, and in our already warped perspectives, that seems like reasonable weather in which to take a two-year old for an extended walk (during Ramadan, when we cannot consume any water in public). We also think that our crappy hotel map is a reasonable tool for finding this place we've never been. Of course, none of this is reasonable, and after about twenty minutes, we're looking for a cab to take us to the big oasis on the other side of town.
First warning sign is that the meter is "broken". I'm accustomed to the gypsy cab system in certain parts of New York, and didn't think much of it. We ask to go to Al Ain Oasis - the big oasis, the one on which the entire city was founded, and after which it was named. Ten minutes of high-speed, nearly-causing-several-accidents driving later, Afghanica Patrick pulls up in front of Al Noor Hospital. We inform him that this isn't correct, in fact, a hospital might be the semantic opposite of an oasis (the whole dying-in-a-bed versus life-springing-from-the-desert dichotomy). He kinda smiles and rolls down the window. A.P. calls over the two guys who are standing out front - either Pakistani or Bangladeshi - and coughs up something that resembles a language in their direction. One of the South Asians asks him, "Hal tetekelam al logat al arabeea?" - Do you speak Arabic? - the driver just sort of smiles at them. I ask them for directions in English, and they're not too sure either. We decide to go back to the hotel.
Flev (to driver): "Just take us to the Rotana"
Driver: (smile)
Flev: "Hotel Rotana"
Driver: (smile)
The driver takes us in the general direction of the Rotana Hotel. We enter the Jahli roundabout, directly in front of the hotel, and the driver eventually figures out which road to exit on. He manages to miss the turn into the pretty damned obvious driveway. Instead of turning around at the next roundabout, or, better yet, the next driveway, he decides the best option is to back up into fast moving traffic. For nearly killing us, and failing to take us to our destination, the driver asks for fifteen dirhams. We pay it, one, just to end the experience, and two, 'cause we're just that wealthy.
Another couple starts to get into the cab as it's pulling out. "S" and I warn them "Don't get in that cab", and recount our experience. They ignore us. This may be due to the lack of any effort on my part to socialize/make friends, but I haven't seen them since.
The result of this is a sort of reverse racism. The Pashtuns are whitish. The Pakistanis, Bengladeshis, and Indians are brownish. Therefore, the darker someone is, the more likely I am to get into their taxi. Dr. King, your dream is realized in the cabs of the United Arab Emirates.
So... when exactly are ya'll buying that car?
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