Monday, May 5, 2008Beijing
I know from the massive amount of reading I’ve done (and more than a couple of trips to New York) that there are good cabbies and there are bad cabbies, the latter of which enjoy taking tourists to their destinations via “the scenic route.” Before getting in my taxi, I‘d studied my map, decided to head to the Forbidden City South Gate where it borders Tiananmen Square, and go from there. That meant a little south and a lot east. Simple.
Until the taxi driver took off going a little east and a lot north.
A lot north. As in “Holy buckets, what am I going to do now???” north.
After ten minutes of this little foray into no man’s land, I had a choice to make: (a) ride endlessly and pay an exorbitant amount, depleting my available cash, or (b) get out and pay the current toll. Bravely (confident I could snag one of the multitudes of taxis I saw whizzing around), I went with option two. We pulled over. I paid. I got out. He spun off.
A couple of blocks later, my theory that a replacement ride would be easily accessible had not only crumbled, but had been sliced, diced, and chopped as thoroughly as yesterday’s noodle vegetables. Showing a parade of drivers my little book with destinations translated into Mandarin, I kept getting emphatic refusals to take me to the South Gate at Tiananman Square.
By Emphatic Taxi Driver Number Five, I was deep into the worry pool, and in a part of Beijing beyond the edge of my map.
Now, mind you, I’m not one to rattle easily in such a scenario. This was my adventure, after all—getting lost is part of the deal. Stranded, however, hadn’t entered my mind until now.
Seeing my “deer caught in the headlights” reaction to mounting evidence I was out of my depth, a nice woman walks up, points at the taxi she just stepped out of, leans in to speak to the driver, then stands up and smiles at me. She’s dressed nicely. She’s smiling. She’s either my new best friend, or the deliverer of all things evil.
We’re going with the former of the two.
I slide in. Whip out my little book. The driver looks at it...shakes his head no...and tears begin to well in my eyes. Figuring out I have no clue WHY “no” is the answer, he smiles gently, motions “Okay,” and off we go.
I’m still hoping the nice woman was really a nice woman, since now we’re in motion on the streets of Beijing.
Every few blocks, he looks back at me, smiles, and gestures that all is fine. He’s also explaining something to me that is, no doubt, supposed to be comforting, but unless God reaches down and fills my head with a Mandarin dictionary, it ain’t gonna help.
About ten minutes slide by, but we’re going the right direction. This is good. Right...?
Right.
While the little Mandarin book said “Forbidden City, South Gate,” what it fails to recognize is that you can’t drive to the South Gate. It’s blocked off from taxi stops by row after row of metal pylons and barricades. The numerous drivers’ no-no-no-no-no-no responses were to the gate—not to taking me there. They just didn’t converse beyond that point.
We get to the west edge of Tiananmen Square—a couple of blocks from the South Gate—where he pulls over, smiles gently, and knows without a word that I finally understand. This lovely, patient soul delivered me safe and sound to my destination, and did so while knowing his passenger was teetering on the edge of her nerves.
Yes, I tipped him 20%, in spite of the “no tipping” tradition in China. This guy earned it, heart—which there was a lot of—and soul. If only they were that sweet in New York.
(Photo credit: farm2.static.flikr.com)
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