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.