Driving into Trouble – With the Law

I started driving a cab at a time when most operators did not comply with legal requirements of the business. This led us to be engaged in constant hide and seek games with the police. Our radio calls were not used for business alone. There were also handy in giving warnings to fellow drivers as to when and where police were conducting crackdowns on taxi-cabs. These spots would be avoided at all costs but if not, the driver would have to part with “something small” (bribe) or risk arrest. We learned to sweet-talk police in much the same way that boys woo girls.

Like I have mentioned before, our company was always striving to improve its image. Part of this involved fulfilling statutory requirements. However, due to the large number of vehicles it had accumulated this compliance could not be completed at once. It had to be done progressively (one car at a time). This had an interesting effect on the police. If they stopped a few of the company cars and found them compliant, they assumed the whole fleet also was. For some strange supernatural reason, they only pulled over the compliant vehicles – at least initially.

While the company worked on bringing all the cars to compliance, we the drivers were given a one month deadline by which we were to get our individual papers in order. First, we had to have valid driving licenses. Additionally we were required to get certificates of good conduct from the criminal investigation department of the Kenya Police. These two documents would further be used to get passenger service vehicle (PSV) driving licenses from the Kenya Revenue Authority. Needless to say, it was a hectic exercise more so for those of us brought up in the village as we were not familiar with the bureaucracies involved in getting the papers. Quite a good number of us were defrauded by our wittier colleagues who claimed to be able help us though somebody they knew and who knew somebody in authority.

For two long weeks, I moved from one long queue to the next in different offices. Every long shift at work culminated in another seemingly endless process. I persisted because I didn’t want to lose my job (that was the threat we had been given for failure to have the documents by the deadline). Many tiring mornings – and afternoons, and several thousands of shillings later, I was fully compliant with the Government of Kenya as a taxi driver. Unfortunately for me, my car (Romeo One) was one of the decoys and so was not compliant. I was however optimistic that I would be lucky enough not to be stopped at a check point until Romeo One got her papers.

I was lucky for some time – and then my luck ran out. I was driving on James Gichuru road in the Nairobi suburb of Lavington with a client. Apparently none of my colleagues had passed there and so there was no radio warning of the police crackdown. I obliviously drove into it as I was animatedly chatting with my client. I noticed many cars pulled over on the side of the road but I didn’t think much of them. The policeman flagged me down at the last possible moment before I could make a run for it. There was nothing to do but stop. Like a wizard, he went straight to the windscreen where the missing sticker was supposed to be and my heart skipped a beat.

The police man was kind enough to give me a chance to call another cab to pick my client. He further advised me to tell the other driver to stop at a safe distance or risk arrest like me. The other car came, I bid my client goodbye as she walked to where the car was “hidden”, and I turned to listen to the verdict of the police man. He checked my personal papers and confirmed that they were in order. The car papers were not proper and the car was “under arrest”. I would therefore be required to drive it to the Kilimani Police Station failure to which it would be towed – at company cost. I agreed to drive it there accompanied by the police man. I parked at the police station and gave the police man the keys after locking the car. He told me to tell my boss to go pick up the car with the necessary documents and required fine. I had just earned myself an unexpected day off.

A fitting Outfit for a Befitting Beneficiary

The taxi company that I worked for, like many companies, was constantly evolving – for the better. When I joined, we used to dress in all manner of clothing. A company gathering used to resemble a rainbow. As the company grew and got some high profile clients, the management decided that we needed to look more presentable. There was only one effective way of achieving that. We were to be fitted with uniforms.

The uniform story was received with mixed reactions – not that we had any say in the matter, but that did not stop us from airing our grievances/appreciation. When those who were against the idea realized that the uniforms were there to stay, they mellowed down. Now there was only issue to be sorted out – The style and colors. This may sound like it was a simple problem, but it was not. The collection of characters we had in that company was so diverse that agreeing on anything was almost impossible. Some of the suggestions were quite hilarious – imagine somebody suggesting that we wear yellow suits?

Once again, the management came to our “rescue” and decided for us. It was now a foregone conclusion; we would be wearing dark gray trousers, light gray shirts, and maroon blazers. The look would be completed with red branded ties. This was going to apply to the lady drivers as well – apart from one who opted for skirts instead of trousers. We were excited to see how we would look in our new outfits.

The day to have our measurements taken arrived and we were bundled into the company van to be taken to the fundi (tailor). We were one rowdy group and the fundi couldn’t wait to be rid of us. We had been taken to a shopping center in a Nairobi suburb known as Lang’ata. After the measurements, the drivers decided to paint the town red. They got drunk and made a few scenes in the otherwise peaceful neighborhood.

One week later, the uniforms were delivered to the office. We could hardly wait to try them out. We all agreed to go home and come to work in our new outfits the following day. The following morning, I have to admit that we looked quite sharp. Passers-by couldn’t help staring. The uniforms were perfect – apart from one small problem. The tailor who made them had apparently never made blazers before. He seemed to have used shirt patterns to cut out our blazers. The anomaly however, was not that noticeable unless one was very keen.

In a business sense, the uniform idea appeared to have been very well informed. The number and affluence of clients increased noticeably. Every taxi passenger wanted to ride with us. We looked professional and trustworthy. It was even possible to tell a client arriving at the airport to look out for a driver in that uniform thus removing the need for a paging board. After some time, we were added an extra piece of clothing – a yellow sleeveless sweater. The yellow advocate had finally got his way after all!

When we were getting our uniforms, we had thought that they had a unique color combination. For some strange reason, none of us had noticed the uncanny resemblance our uniforms bore to those of officials of the Kenya Airports Authority. They had identical uniforms, right down to the yellow sweater! This came as a pleasant surprise to the cheekier drivers among us. They were often able to access the high security areas of the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, and the smaller Wilson Airport. At least something positive had come out of our uniforms with the “shirt-like” blazers.

Going Out of Town – And Dreaming Myself Out of a Handbrake!

Driving a taxi was an interesting job. Every day held its own surprises. Apart from the occasional advance booking, we never used to know who we would get to carry on a particular day. On some days I would meet some pleasant clients with whom I would engage in the most intriguing discussions that I didn’t want to end. On some other days I got stuck with passengers who were quite grumpy and would complain about everything; from the way I drove, to the route I took, and even the way the car smelt. The most preferred clients however, were the generous ones. These are the ones who never bargained on the fare, and they also gave good tips. These were rare and I encountered one only once in a long while.

By now I had overcome the initial excitement of driving Romeo One and had settled down to the routine of ferrying over-laden clients and withstanding the smoky interior. One important skill I gained driving that station wagon, was packing. I could pack so much luggage in that car that if it was taken out at a road block for instance, it couldn’t be fitted back in. I was that good. The packing also gave me the added benefit of getting a free physical work-out every time I ferried luggage into and out of people’s houses and hotels. My routine involved handing over and taking over bags from hotel and apartment porters. I made friends with many of them due to the frequent interaction. Many of them are still my friends today.

Weekends used to be particularly slow and especially Saturday evenings and Sundays. It was the evening of an otherwise quiet and uneventful Saturday. All the cars were on “Base” and no work was forthcoming. During such times drivers used to be very edgy and would try to make passengers out of every person who was walking by our base. It used to be embarrassing to raise the famous taxi forefinger and shout, “Taxi!”  Only to realize that it was one of the day guards from the neighboring petrol station going home for the day – after changing out of his uniform.  On that day, I was still a newbie and so nobody thought of me as a threat to any serious work. That evening I was content to just lean against Romeo One and count my losses, courtesy of a slow day.

I was parked right in the middle and would have to wait until the cars in front or behind got clients before I could move my car to a more “lucrative” position. I saw what looked like a family approaching but I only paid them casual interest. There was a young black guy whose physique indicated that he used to work out. He was with a generously endowed Arabic looking woman and they were accompanied by two young boys who were Arabic as well. As I looked at them I realized that they walking straight towards me, and then I saw it. They had three big bags, the kind you drag on wheels. This was definitely Romeo One territory. No wonder they were ignoring the calls from the other drivers who did not seem to realize that this amount of luggage could fit in their “toy cars”. This was a man’s assignment and I was there to handle it. I received them and would have been perfectly happy to drop this group to the airport – only that it was even better, they were going to Eldoret! I couldn’t believe my luck.

We negotiated; I called the supervisor for this part because it was too big for me. We agreed on a fair charge and they paid up, right there and then, in cash! My, my, my, people have money in this country (That’s what was going through my mind that time). I packed the bags in the car, filled the tank with fuel, and off we drove, but not before we went to a supermarket and bought about a month’s supply of snacks and refreshments. We left Nairobi at about 8 o’clock and by 10 p.m. we were at Nakuru where we drove into the Stem Hotel. We ate a heavy supper of Butter Nan and Chicken Tikka at the Indian restaurant, and got back to the road at 11p.m. It was then that I came to experience firsthand the effect of food on human concentration. I am reliably told that all the blood in the body, including that which is in the brain, is recalled back to the stomach to help deal with the emergency called food! The result is that you sleep, or I slept (only that I was behind the wheel of a moving car)

I drove and slept intermittently until – By the grace of God – we arrived at Soi which is about 50 Kilometers after Eldoret. I could not believe I had made it, at 2 a.m. in the morning! Now all I needed was a bed – only that there was no bed. The only hotel in that village/town was fully booked, and the homestead of this “masala” family only had beds for the big woman and the small boys. The young man and I would have to make do with the car seats, with all that fatigue, and no shower. It was going to be a long night – or whatever remained of it. I parked the car in front of a wall – of a mud hut, and we slept. I slept so soundly until I had a dream, a nightmare actually. The car was moving towards the mud wall at an astonishing speed, and it was going to crash into it unless I stopped it. I pressed the brake so hard until I was literally standing on it, but the car didn’t stop. It was going to hit that wall. I tried using the handbrake. I pulled it up hard, using both hands and by the time the car stopped, the hand-brake was standing upright, at a 90˚angle.

When I got back to Nairobi and handed the car back to my colleague, he remarked about the handbrake and asked me what had happened to it. “I don’t know”, I replied, much to his wonderment.

Romeo One – A Disguised Box of Flaws

On the morning of the first day after I had been assigned Romeo one, I was extremely excited. For the first time, I was really looking forward to going to work. I was also looking forward to night time because I could now go anywhere and at any time because I could see the road. There would now be need of waiting for unwitting guides to escort me in the darkness. Romeo one was reputed as being the car with the brightest headlights in the company. My colleagues profusely congratulated me on my “enviable” upgrading and I really believed that they were genuinely happy for me. Only it was not so.

Romeo one was the only station wagon and so all jobs involving luggage were assigned to her. This was an obvious advantage because I now had my work cut out for me. What I didn’t know was that there was a downside to this. Most clients did not want to be picked up by this “truck”. A lot of them actually believed that this car should remain parked until a client with excess baggage showed up. They even said as much, to my face every time I went to pick them. This was not a flaw on the part of Romeo one – at least not in the true sense of the word – but it was bad for business. This however did not stop the romantic one from literally becoming an airport taxi.

Romeo one and I would show up at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport at least once every shift, but often more. Additionally, I had regular clients who usually had a lot of luggage. There was one who was a professional photographer and he had lots of bulky equipment packed in duffel bags. He was also often accompanied by shapely girls who were apparently his photography subjects, but judging by the way they carried on I believed they were more than just that.

One of the main reasons why many clients did not like to be ferried in Romeo one was the fact that she was not particularly comfortable. Her cushioning was rather hard and the back seat resembled a bench with a back rest. Those clients who liked riding back left did not look quite so elegant on Romeo one’s back seat. They looked out rightly ridiculous. This was because the back rest was rather short and any adult would look like a clown in those tiny circus cars. The whole interior assembly was also constantly squeaky due to being overworked during the regular folding up of the rear seat to accommodate more luggage.

Romeo one was a convenient car to have but she had absolutely no style (imagine she was plain white!). She didn’t have the features I had taken for granted in Victor, the main one being the radio. Romeo one had a radio alright but it qualified to be a museum exhibit – to teach children about the historical development of radios. The radio only received in mid-wave and the most interesting programs I could listen to were primary school radio lessons. At least I got a refresher in elementary education. That however was not the worst thing about the radio. The worst was the speaker. It was only one and it couldn’t have been more than 2 inches in diameter. It was fastened somewhere inside the dashboard and it snorted more than it talked. If at least the speaker had been good, it would have made my “school work” a lot more interesting.

Romeo one was not intended to be driven fast. She had a four speed manual gear box and a manual steering. Getting her to move fast required all the skill I could muster. When I did manage to accelerate her fast enough for my taste, she would ruin the mood by ringing some chimes from somewhere behind the speedometer. This was ostensibly to warn me that I was over-speeding – at 110 km/h! With Romeo one, you couldn’t just floor the accelerator pedal. If you did, the engine would cut off – like the rudest kind of a speed governor. Instead, you had to woo her gently in order to accelerate her. This, I came to learn was because she had a long running problem with her carburetor (yes she had one), and no one had been able to fix it. The problem also made her a guzzler and now I knew why the other drivers had avoided her. This was because fuel “ate” into a driver’s commission – which was calculated as a percentage from the money which remained after the fuel cost had been deducted from the daily collections.

The carburetor problem made Romeo one to smoke badly (really thick black smoke) and nobody wanted to park behind her unless he didn’t mind ending up with a black patch on his car when she was started and revved. On its own, this problem would have been bearable had it not been compounded by another more serious one. Romeo one had been involved in many minor accidents in the past and all had involved her boot door (tail gate). The panel beating jobs had been done well apart from the fact that the door was now not completely air tight. The black smoke would therefore find its way into the car if it was driven at more than 60 km/h. At first I never realized why I was always teary eyed every time I drove fast – and I am not an emotional person. When I look back now, I don’t understand how my clients and I didn’t die from carbon monoxide poisoning.

Saying Goodbye to Victor – And Falling in Love!

During my last few weeks with Victor, I was not recording the mileage in my work sheet. This was because her odometer was not working. I had driven her until the speedometer cable broke and I was not even driving that fast. The problem was with Victor’s speedometer needle. It did not move proportionally to the speed of the car. It used to add about 40km/h to whatever speed I would be driving at. If I was driving at 120km/h (which for Victor was easy), the Speedo would indicate 160km/h. On the day that the cable broke, I was driving at 140km/h – and her top speed was 180km/h!

My colleagues were really envious of me driving a car with no odometer. For them it would have meant making a lot of unaccounted for money because everything was based on the Kilometers covered. For me it made no difference owing to my honesty and inexperience, because getting work was still a problem. What I didn’t know then, was that the time of bidding my beloved Victor goodbye had drawn near. I had driven Victor for only three months but it felt like a lifetime. It was probably the most eventful three months of my life – at least that’s how it seemed then.

In the taxi business drivers come and go. Attrition is extremely high and it is rare to find a cab driver in Nairobi staying in one company for long. Not all the reasons for leaving are bad though. A big chunk of the drivers leave for greener pastures – mostly NGOs and foreign embassies. Every taxi driver constantly dreams of the day he will get employed by an International NGO and be assigned a big off-road SUV with a winch and high-lift jack clamped to its mean looking bull bars. To many of the drivers it remained (and to a few still remains) a dream. For some it came to pass sooner and for others, much later (like was to happen in my case years later). That particular time, it happened to a guy known as Cyrus. He got a driver’s job with the UN. We were all green with envy but we were happy for him – me in particular because I stood to benefit the most from his leaving.

During those days in that company, there were three classes of vehicles – and by extension three classes of drivers. Victor and I were, of course, in the third class of vehicle and driver respectively. Cyrus, the guy who was leaving was in the first class with his vehicle known as “Yankee”, or as we fondly used to refer it, ”Ile Nyeusi”, which is Swahili for “The Black One”. Now don’t get me wrong. There was no way I was going to inherit the Black One. No one ever jumped classes. We had to move progressively from one level to the immediate next one. There was a second class guy by the name of Alex who was going to be the heir of the Black One. He used to drive a station wagon (the only station wagon) christened “Romeo One” (Drivers used to call it “Karori”, which is Kikuyu for small lorry owing to the huge payload it could carry). It was this Karori (Romeo One) that was going to be the ticket to get me away from Victor.

I expected a lot of competition for Romeo One but I was surprised to realize that I was the only one who was interested. There were several other class three drivers but they seemed content with whatever they driving. I didn’t have to play any politics or do any lobbying. Romeo One was given to me on a silver platter, quite literally. When she was handed over to me officially, I instantly fell in love.

It made a lot of sense then that her name was Romeo One. She was everything that Victor was not, and more. Her headlights were like X-rays, they could illuminate the road for miles ahead. Her wipers worked – at three different speeds. Her windows could be smoothly rolled all the way to the top. Her seats could be tilted until they were like beds, and her heater worked. I could not believe my luck.  I was going to learn later that she had her own issues which were quite different from those of Victor. I would understand the reason why nobody wanted her, and why everybody had literally encouraged me to have her so that they are not forced to take her. That however, is a story for another day.

Having an Accident or Two – and Living to Tell the Tale

During my long career as a driver, I was involved in only two accidents. They were not accidents in the true sense of the word. They were more of road mishaps and they caused minimal injury and damage. Perhaps I would have considered them inconsequential and not worth writing about if it was not for the reason that they both involved that moody girl, “Victor”. Both of them also happened within the first three months of my being hired.

The first accident occurred on Christmas Eve of 1999. I had been working for slightly more than a month and was asked to take one of the company staff members to the city centre. She wanted to buy some personal items for Christmas and we went to a street in Nairobi known as Moi Avenue. I was very tired and sleepy as I had just worked overnight. I stopped at the shop she wanted to go into and she walked in. I was particularly grumpy that morning and couldn’t wait to drop her back at the office and go home. I decided to make a U-turn while she was still in the shop so that we could just drive off as soon as she came out. I checked in my side mirror and the road was clear so I swung the car round onto the middle of the road. Previously, I had only heard of a rear view mirror blind spot from other people. It was my turn to experience the danger it can pose.

I heard loud hooting and the screeching of tires as an oncoming car tried to avoid hitting me. I applied emergency brakes just as Victor was positioned straight across the road. The other car swerved just in time to miss my door, and then swerved back again to avoid hitting other cars parked on the side of the street. Victor could only manage to inflict light damage in the form of one long scratch on the side of the other car right up to the rear wheel. If this was how Victor behaved on the open road, then it was apparent why she had those scratches on the corners of her bumpers that I had noticed when I first inspected her.

The driver of the other car and his passengers were not going to let me get off easily as I was clearly on the wrong. They were inciting each other to extort money from me to pay for the damage to their car. I was angry at their taking advantage of my misfortune. I was also scared because there were five of them against me – I was alone as my colleague had come out but was keeping a safe distance to let me take the fall alone. It was unnerving to see a crowd starting to form as usually happens in Nairobi when an accident happens. These crowds have been known to rob accident victims and vandalize their vehicles. I had to decide fast or have the situation escalate to unmanageable levels. My “victims” were demanding two thousand shillings. It was the only money I had in my pocket. The only problem was that it was not my money. It was company money which I had collected through the shift and was supposed to submit before I left for home.

I had no option but to pay the money. I picked my passenger, and went back to the office. I explained that I didn’t have any money in cash as I had used up all I had to pay for the damage I had caused. The supervisor would hear none of it. I would have to pay that money to the company or consider myself jobless. We broke for Christmas – A dark Christmas indeed it was – and I had to think of where to get the money from. I had not accumulated a single coin in savings and I was in a fix. I shared my dilemma with some friends in the village and they came to my aid. Each gave me a loan of one thousand shillings. I was elated when I went back to work in the New Year and was given back the keys to Victor.

About one month after reporting back, I had my second accident. I was driving through a Nairobi slum known as Kangemi just after having dropped a client. Kangemi is a place which had, and still has so many people that even walking through the throngs was a problem. Driving in Kangemi was a nerve-wracking experience because you literally had to push your way through the mass of humanity. I was inching my way forward slowly as people moved out of the way hesitantly and crowded back into the road as soon as I passed. I noticed a young man crossing in front of me as I approached. I never expected him to turn around and attempt to cross back again, but he did.   By the time I stopped, I had hit him.

There were screams from the guy I had hit, and also from onlookers. A huge crowd quickly gathered and I didn’t know whether to protect the car, attend to the injured man, or deal with the crowd. The guy was writhing in pain but most of the people in the crowd were baying for my blood. They were listing the number of people who had been hit by vehicles in the area recently, and blaming it careless drivers like me. My heart was pounding like a drum. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. I thought my end had finally come.

A young guy came out from the crowd and everybody seemed to respect him by the way they let him pass and listened to him. He advised me to take the guy I had hit to a doctor and he offered to accompany me. This seemed to appease the crowd who would not have wanted me to leave with the injured man alone. They claimed that people had previously left with those that they have hit purportedly to take them to hospital, only to dump them some roadside to die. I took the guy to a small local clinic where the doctor diagnosed him to be having soft tissue injuries but no fractures. I parted with four hundred shillings for the treatment, and I also had to drop him at his house. The guy who had assisted me did not ask for any money. He just wanted to help, which I found to be a rare quality in such an area.

I had already reported the incident to the office but by the time I got back, the supervisor was frantic. This was because I had conveyed the wrong information due to the incorrect use of the radio call. The radio call microphone has a button which one is supposed to keep pressed when talking. We were always advised to press the button fully for two seconds before starting to talk. This was meant to ensure that the full statement was conveyed. New users however, always pressed and talked simultaneously causing the first part of the statement to be cut off. This was the same thing I had done when I was asked by the radio operator if the person was badly injured. I answered in Kiswahili, “sio sana”, meaning not badly. However, having inadvertently cut off the first word from the communication, it came out as, “….sana”, meaning very badly. The supervisor had imagined that he would be dealing with a case of causing death by dangerous driving.

Finding a Way of not Getting Lost

During my first days as a taxi driver, I had an unbelievably poor sense of direction which led me to getting lost several times during every shift. It was the one trait I needed to lose if I was to survive in my new found profession. It was losing me respect, clients, and money.  The loss of money was of course the most significant since I had not accumulated much of the other two. It didn’t do well for me to build up hundreds of shillings in bounces every day. On the road to my financial freedom, this was like walking one step forward and two backwards. I had to find a way out – fast.

I assessed my situation and realized how precarious it was. There were only two ways out. One was to quit and go back to the village, and the other was to stay put and learn what I needed to. Being the fighter that I was (and still am), I had only one option and that was to stick where I was and learn. Learning something as complex as the routes of a big city is easier said than done owing to the fact that there is no known teacher on the subject. Most people believe that learning any route is best achieved by getting lost. There is even a Kenyan community proverb to that effect. I could not, however, afford to use that method because in the taxi business, getting lost meant paying up – in hard cash.

The solution to my problem occurred to me during one of the deep meditation sessions that I used to have in those days. It would still cost money but would be worth every shilling. That is each single one of three hundred shillings. It would put the whole city of Nairobi, including the suburbs, right in the palm of my hand – or on the bonnet of my car, quite literally. The way out of my predicament was through one of the greatest inventions of all time. It was also one of the best investments I ever made in my life – a map of Nairobi. Up until then, I – like most other Kenyans – used to think that maps were only meant to be used by tourists. I knew then that many lost people would not have been lost if they had a map.

Geography had been one of my favourite subjects in school, and this knowledge came in handy. Reading a direction from my precious map, and going there physically made me know (unusually fast) the routes to take to many different places. I never let any of my colleagues know about my map. I never removed it when I was parked at the base. I would wait to be sent to a place by the control room and with my newly discovered confidence, I admitted to knowing wherever it was that I sent to. I used to drive out of base, take the general direction of the place I had been sent to, and then park by the side of some lonely road. I would take out my map and spread it out on Victor’s (my red car’s) bonnet.  From that I was always able to find any place as long as I knew the name of the road it was located on.

My colleagues started noticing the fact that I was not getting lost anymore. They erroneously attributed this to what they thought was my high level of intelligence and a supernatural memory. I still pretended to ask for directions but always cut somebody short saying I had already understood. I let them take the credit that rightfully belonged to my map. I also took some of the credit by being referred to as the easiest new driver to give directions to. I trusted that map 100% until I came to learn that not all roads in Nairobi have names, and not all those with names have them written on a sign. I also came to know that not every square kilometre of our beautiful city is mapped, and potholes are not indicated on maps.