Anyone who
has been in Azerbaijan for more than three days probably has a tale of taxi terror
to tell. Drivers speed and weave in and
out of traffic as if they are the personification of crazed characters on the
screen in a video game.
After my last ride, I’ve decided no marshrutka is
disgusting enough to make me taxi it to Sirvan again. It started when I got to the Salyan Avtovagsal in Baku at 7:00 am, after dropping my daughter
off at the airport. I got into a taxi after
the driver told me he was going to Sirvan, and would take me to my house for 5
manat (standard price for a shared taxi.)
I settled in for a long wait for other passengers, but twenty minutes
later the car was full and the terror began.
As soon as we pulled out of the parking lot, I knew I
was in trouble. The driver was trying to
speed in heavy traffic which meant driving on the wrong side of the road, into
the path of an oncoming bus if
necessary. He screeched within inches of
cars in front of us, slamming on the brakes and throwing us around inside the car. All of this was accompanied by throbbing
music on the car stereo, played at a volume that could disrupt a whole neighborhood.
I was sure we were all going to die in that taxi, and
I closed my eyes so the impact would be
a surprise. Since I had only slept a
couple of hours the night before, I mercifully fell asleep. About
a half hour from Sirvan, I was awakened by a fellow passenger who wanted to know where I was going. I told the driver where I lived, and he said
he was going to the village, and I would have to pay extra to go into the “city.” All of the other passengers swore they were
going to the village too, and I was the only one who wanted to go to the city.
That put me over the edge. I yelled at the driver, telling him I was a
guest in his country, teaching his children for free and I could not and would
not pay anything extra. He and my fellow
passengers laughed at this, quoting my use of Azeri..
but they understood what I was saying.
The driver then asked my age, and told me he thought I was 50. Suddenly he thought I was his friend, and
insisted I take his number so I could call him for rides in the future. It was too much trouble to say no, so I did,
listing his name as “NEVER.”
We finally pulled into Sirvan, and, of course, the
passengers who claimed they were going to the village got out at various points
around the city. Soon I was dropped off
at my door, feeling lucky to be alive, and vowing never to travel by shared
taxi again. I’m also wondering why I
would be treated this way in a country
that prides itself on its hospitality.
