mercredi 20 décembre 2006

The taxi driver who was driving himself free



A white Mercedes is parked at a taxi stand near Porte de La Chapelle, Paris. The engine is off. Through the driver’s window, I can see a bearded, refined middle-aged man biting vigorously into a sandwich. It is a quarter past noon, time for lunch.
Ahmed Shoker is Egyptian. He arrived in France 32 years ago. First he worked in a restaurant, and then as a waiter in a hotel. He has been a taxi driver for 22 years now. “I wanted more freedom”, he says with his husky, gentle voice. “Being a driver, I could arrange my timetable as I wished. And at the time I wanted to have children”, he adds with a grin. Taxi driving is not such a quiet activity however. Ahmed prefers avoiding inner Paris at certain times: “Driving in Paris can be very stressful and tiring. Our mayor Bertrand Delanoë has opened corridors for us taxis, but I’d rather drive in the outskirts. For example, taking someone to the airport is just perfect for me, because the journey is worth four fares in Paris.”
The main problem is that you sometimes have to deal with odd customers. Ahmed has many an anecdote, so much so that he has to reflect upon which to choose: “For example, there are people who come and sit in my taxi and say they do not know where they want to go. They look desperate. One time I brought one of them to Châtelet and left him there.” Ahmed even looks ill at ease as he tells me about this particular story: “Once, a customer refused to pay. He took a syringe out of his bag and said it was aids infected. If ever I had tried anything, he would have stabbed me...” Thanksfully, this does not happen every so often. Ahmed reassures me. He resumes with his confidentially tone: “In general, customers are nice. Some of them are chatterboxes; they cannot help but talk about their private lives. I’m discrete, I don’t want to listen to their problems, so I just nod or answer politely. They need to talk to someone, and this someone is us taxi-drivers.”
Ahmed turns the ignition. His lunch break is over. It is half past noon, time to work, isn’t it? Sometimes freedom has a price.

© Brice 2007

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