Taksi!

Disclaimer: I've always strive to keep a positive perspective in my blog because I love my adopted home, and I want you all to know why. So, please forgive me for the following negative-nelliness. It doesn't reflect on my views of the country or its lovely people.

In a recent conversation with a fellow Jakartan, the topic of taxis arose. This is not uncommon since traffic jams generally take the place of the weather as fodder for small talk here. Natives and bule alike bemoan commutes, public transportation, and the unpredictability of when and where the macet may strike (answer: always and everywhere). Public transport, however, has been pretty good to me. I can get a taxi any time or day or night, and if traffic is too bad, I can walk to the corner of my complex and hire an ojek (motorbike taxi) to weave and wind me to my destination. All for pennies on the dollar. I actually enjoy winding through traffic and delight in taxi drivers who know jalan tikus (mice roads) or short cuts. There are, however, dark moments. Moments that bring me to more frustration, dare I say it, than the whole laundry soap incident. I could think of only three such moments during the conversation. But today, oh today, was the straw that broke the bule's back.

I am generally non-confrontational and have a very high threshold for anger. I don't like getting angry and I detest yelling at anyone. I get visibly red in the face, shake, and immediately feel bad for person I just gave a stern talking to. However, I've discovered over the past year and a half that just the right combination of taxi drivers and traffic jams can bring me from zero to pissed off faster than you can say, mau ke mana, mister?

The first time I was 'taken for a ride' - in the idiomatic sense - was last year when I had to get to the airport for an early morning departure. This meant I had to leave my apartment at 3:30 am. This is good because there is no traffic then, but it is also bad because there are only a limited number of taxi drivers awake at that point. I had to take the first taxi that showed up. I was warned from every one and my landlord's mother (very sweet lady) to only take certain taxi companies (Bluebird), so I was very apprehensive when a little, olive colored taxi pulled up. I had to go, so I got in.

We were the slowest car on the road.

I sat in the back and watched grandmothers on bicycles pedal faster than our car. The worst part was that, much like the laundry soap incident, I didn't have the language to tell the driver to go faster at that point. Also, it was three in the morning, so calling someone seemed unreasonable. We arrived, and I offered my best angry eyes while forking over the money.

Since that moment until three weeks ago, I've had nary a taxi problem beyond an occasional argo kuda, 'race horse meter' - a meter that's been modified to, well, I think you get the idea. I usually blame myself for those incidents, though because I get impatient and take an disreputable company.

Now, rewind to three weeks ago. My mother and I had just returned from our wonderful adventure in Kalimantan. We were dirty (no showers for three days), tired, and hungry. We got in an Express taxi at the airport. I like Express. They are cheaper than Bluebirds, plentiful, clean, and generally pretty honest. Or so I thought. With the Friday, rush-hour traffic, it took us a good two hours just to get in the vicinity of my apartment. Mom and I tried to make the best of it by enjoying the skyscrapers and talking about architecture (e.g. "Look at the swoopty thing on the top of that building. Cool."). Then mom made the observation that we had passed the same building three times. I spoke up and asked the driver where he was going. He returned in rapid-fire bahasa from which I only understood "short cut." I told him that his short cut was a mistake, and that he turned too soon. Let me say now, that one wrong turn in Jakarta traffic can easily add an hour more to your trip. So, as we headed back into endless traffic, I began racking my brain for angry words. When we finally made it, and we had mom's luggage safely out of the trunk. I turn to the driver and handed him 20,000 less than the meter price. I told him, all while trying to keep the shake out of my voice, that I would only give him that much because he made a big mistake (I emphasized big with hand movements). Ok, ok...they weren't that angry, but they got the point across. He slammed the trunk and left without saying a word.

Fast forward to today. I took an ojek to the nearby grocery store. When I was finished, I tried to hail a taxi because it is actually much cheaper to take them, and I had two bags full of food. After waiting around for 10 or 15 minutes, I broke down and took some no-name taxi. The driver seemed kind enough. Besides, we only had to drive straight and make one turn. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes. Unless you turn the wrong way. The driver turned left despite my chorus of Kenan! Kenan! Now we were dead smack in the middle of a traffic jam. I immediately told the driver exactly what his mistake was. He said he hadn't known about the route. A ten-minute drive just turned into an hour drive. He took me as far as a market place that is about two kilometers from my apartment. He suggested that it would be better for me to walk than to sit in the traffic. He was right, so I fished out my money to pay the 6,000 Rp that was on the meter. I only had a 10,000 bill, so I handed it over expecting change. He snatched up the money and then said he had no small change. So, now I have to walk with my groceries in the heat of the day for the same price that it should have taken to get me all the way to my apartment in 10 minutes! I had no time to argue because we were parked in front of an embassy, and a guard made me get out of the car so the taxi could move. I eventually made it back to my apartment. I was so boiling (literally and figuratively) at this point that I resorted to cranking up my favorite angry music, which is usually only reserved for break ups (Thank you, Ben Folds) to put my groceries away to: Gimme my money back. Gimme my money back, you b****.

And there you have it. I do get mad. Already in my mind I'm making up excuses for the driver (Mr. Folds and I both apologize for calling you names), but I had that brief moment where I was really, and truly angry. Now, I don't have any plans to increase my angry vocabulary, but I may just heed those warnings and stick with the expat-friendly taxis. I love Indonesia, aku cinta Indonesia, and it's people; there are just a few drivers out there...you know who you are...that I'd rather not meet again.