Taxi Terror

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.