Establishing Babylon – Using Smoky London-Look Taxis

I drove Lima-Lima for a relatively short time before I got promoted again. The company was growing really fast by now and we were in for a treat. We would be getting brand new cars (well, not completely brand new but another company had bought more than they needed and they needed to get rid of the extra ones). They were fourteen of them and I got one “piece”. Mine was a lovely metallic green in colour and I fell instantly in love with it. Our company had acquired so many other cars recently prior to that and seemed to have run out of names to give the new cars. They were given numbers instead and mine was “083”.

Around the same time, the London-look taxis which had taken the city of Nairobi by storm a few years earlier had started to show signs of age. They had not been new when they arrived. In fact they had been very old and it is only because of the good old British meticulous tradition of maintenance and restoration that they had arrived in relatively good shape. Most of them later developed problems with the engines which were of an old diesel powered design. The engines performed relatively well – it was starting them that was a challenge, especially on cold mornings.

A short distance away from Bosnia (Base 2), there was a shopping mall. It was one of the first ones to be built in Nairobi and it was (and still is) known as the Yaya Centre. The Yaya Centre had a taxi rank (which is a special parking for taxis) to serve the clients of the centre. This rank had five slots which were shared by nine London taxis. Of all the nine, only three could be started with a key in the morning. The rest would have to be towed by the three – usually into the basement parking of the mall – in order to be coerced to start. The result was a smoky basement with zero visibility every morning in addition to dirty oil drips all over the place. In order to avert a looming fire risk in the centre, the Yaya management conducted an inspection of all nine London taxis. I can guess the first test was starting the engine with a key without any assistance – in the morning. Only three passed and the rest were kicked out of the centre.

Our company management was approached with a proposal. They would get two parking slots on condition that there would always be a presentable car at any one time. “083” and the sisters had just gotten their future cut out for them. That way, Bosnia eventually shifted entirely to the Yaya centre. It was a good move because there was more business there since this was a very busy shopping mall. There were lots of people walking in and out and asking for cabs. We were further favoured by our “new” cars which most clients preferred to the old London taxis. We were on a roll.

It was my opportunity to study the famed London-look cabs at close range. They were big cars which were either grey or black in colour. Some owners had changed to other colours and one of the three we had at Yaya was actually white. The cars had impeccable interiors with lots of space for sitting and for placing luggage. The main rear passenger seat was really comfortable but the rest of the seats were of the hard fold-down types. The driver’s cabin was rather cramped – possibly to create more room for the “fare-paying” passengers.

During that name giving “drought”, a newly hired control guy named the new base “Babylon”. I may never know what his motivation was in coming up with such a name but that was the name which stuck. This was in funny contrast to the slang name given to London look taxis in Nairobi then. They used to be referred to as “mũnyua maaĩ” which is Kikuyu for a serious drinker of water. I suspect this was because of the way these big cars consumed a lot of water when they overheated, and that was often. I hear they could “drink” up to 20 litres in a single session.

Roger that, Base One! – The Radio Call can be a Lot of Fun

I still remember with nostalgia how the radio call was proven time and again to be the lifeline of a cab driver. We would use it to get work, give out work, get directions, and – perhaps most importantly – share a joke or two. Earlier on when I joined, there was even a guy (who we used to call Pastor) who would conduct early morning prayers over the radio call. On many occasions, drivers who dropped a client within the city centre at night would be sent for chips and chicken on the radio. We had a code name for everything. Chips was “Kinangop” while chicken was simply referd to as “Kenchic”. A chicken drumstick was “Pande ya kukanyaga” while the wing was “Pande ya kuruka”.

Radio language was fun especially because ours was not as strict as that of the police. It was more like a normal telephone conversation with interjections of call signs. Most communication was in Swahili owing to the fact that most taxi drivers of my time were not comfortable talking English – Don’t ask me how they communicated with foreign clients. In fact, for some strange reason, the least literate drivers seemed to get the most clients. What the management made sure of was that all new joiners learnt the most critical components of radio communication.

We were taught to press the button on the microphone for two seconds before starting to speak into it. We were also advised to repeat the first words of a sentence twice. Calling base would sound like this, “Base One, Base One, do you read?” Base one would respond by saying, “Go ahead Lima Lima” The rest of that interchange would then continue in Swahili. When I was new I would press the button and speak at the same time, cutting off the first part of the conversation. I learnt but some didn’t. They continued to cut off their sentences until it became a trade mark. Like there was this guy whose call sign was “Computer”. He always said, “Puter” and said “Ngware” when he meant to say “Kawangware”.

Whenever anybody pressed the talk button, everybody else got cut off and had to listen to the guy with the pressed mic. One day the “pastor”, who was also overweight, took a heavy supper of large “Kinangop” and half “Kenchic”. When he retired into his car for the night, he fell into heavy sleep. He was snoring heavily and “breaking wind” regularly for the better part of the night. You may wonder how I and everyone else got to know this. Well, the guy used to drive a very small car for his size and during the night, some part of his massive body depressed the talk button on his radio. We were treated to a playback of every single sound that was made in that small car by that big guy. Am glad I was not in the car because with the amount and efficacy of the gases he released, I don’t think I would have lived to tell the tale.

The radio room at the office was a really small affair. There was barely enough room for the telephone sets, radio equipment, and the thick books in which every trip was recorded (This was before computers became popular). All these were placed on a narrow table which was more of a shelf. The control person had a small chair which occupied the remaining small space in the room.

Like the drivers, the control people used to sleep at night but they had to do it in their chair which I am sure was not particularly comfortable. However, I guess, after getting used, those guys could sleep and even dream in that chair which is what happened one early morning. The phone rang, and the guy woke with a start and picked the radio. He bellowed, “Taxi Cabs, good morning!” thinking he was talking to the client. This woke all of us and when we realized his hilarious error, we decided to taut him. Everybody started to respond, “Good morning Base One, so kind of you to ask, and how are you?” Somebody at Kososvo said, “Here at Kosovo we are fine, and how is Base One and Bosnia?” A Bosnian responded and said, “We are okay at Bosnia, you should be greeting us every morning, we really appreciate” This went on for a good fifteen minutes and “Alpha Three”, for that was the control guy’s call sign, was not very amused.

The Rude Awakening

When I shifted base to Kosovo, it did not take me long to get into the flow of things. Work in this base was more or less regular and rather predictable. We got to pick up and drop off the same clients at the same places and at the same time literally every day. We were therefore not as edgy as the drivers I had left in Base one. At Base 2 we could finish our stories and even get time to nap. It was a refreshing change from what I had known before and I really started enjoying the work.

After some weeks, I realized that I was almost always free every day between 7 and 8 p.m.  Gradually, this became the window of opportunity to grab my daily nap. It was so regular that I usually started dozing right on cue at 7 every evening. The nap was useful because after that it usually became busy until midnight when work slumped until early morning. My daily nap continued for many weeks until it became a habit – hard to break. It was undisturbed for so long and that led me to take it as my right – until one day!

At 7 p.m. sharp, the radio crackled to life. I was on the verge of shutting down for my daily wink so I answered groggily. The control guy joked about me sounding sleepy but I laughingly dismissed him. I assured him I was good to go. The client I was to pick was not far from Base and I was in his compound in less than ten minutes. He was not one of our regulars. It was actually the first time he was using our company. The place I was picking him up from was his office – the kind that is set up in a residential building. I reached the place and parked. I then got out of the car, walked up to the door and knocked. He answered the door and told me to wait in the car and he would be out in a little while. I went and sat in the car, and dozed off – from where I had left off.

I woke up with a start when the guy opened the passenger door, got in and closed it with a bang. I don’t know how long I had slept but when I awoke, I was very confused. I looked at the man and I could not place him. The compound in which I was parked was not familiar either. I could not remember where I was and I obviously did not know who I was with. In spite of my confusion, I didn't want to ask the client all these questions. I realized that I was looking at the man with shock on my face. I probably looked like a carjack victim. My client just said, “Let’s go”. That jolted me back to reality – although I still didn't know where I was, or who he was.

I bought my time by being very calculated in my movements. I started the car and then backed up slowly. That time my mind was on over-drive, trying to jog my memory. Thankfully, by the time I had aligned the car with the gate (which I had had a problem locating), I had fully woken up and got my bearings back. It was with renewed confidence, as I drove out the gate, that I asked my passenger, “Where would you like to go?”    

Moving to Kosovo – and Speaking Japanese

When I was promoted to drive Lima Lima, I had not thought about the fact that it was supposed to operate from a different site. The company I worked for had 3 sites or bases as we used to refer to them. The main one – which I had been working from until then – was at a place called Westlands. It was referred to as Base 1. The next one was on Ngong road and this was Base 2. This was around the time when there was a war going on in Bosnia and so the third base which was located at the Village Market shopping mall was christened Bosnia. By extension, Base 2 came to be known as Kosovo – in honor of that country which was also at war and was always on the news.

The morning after I had come back from Lake Nakuru, I confidently came and parked at Base 1 just like I had been used to before. The manager found me there and sent me packing to Kosovo since that was Lima Lima’s base. I was not comfortable to move although I had no option but to comply. I was worried about having to get new clients and learn new routes. However, I need not have worried. The clients in Kosovo were different from those I had known at Base 1. They were fewer but they often travelled further – meaning they paid more. We mainly served the affluent suburbs of Karen, Kilimani, and Lavington. Despite carrying the name of a war zone, Kosovo did not portend any difficulties for us – apart from the occasional difficult Kibera assignment. Please note, the difficulty was not in the client but in the areas we had to drive through as they were not particularly safe.

When I was in college, we had a lecturer who studied in Japan and was fluent in the language. One time he brought a visitor from Japan to our class. She was a young lady and she was very excited to visit – and she only spoke Japanese. She wanted to learn so many things especially about the national language – Kiswahili. Our teacher was kind enough to translate. She learnt so many words especially considering that she was there for only one morning. When time came for her to leave she really wept. Apparently she had fallen in love with all of us. One of the noisier guys said that she should also teach us some words in Japanese so that we could also have something to remember her by. She taught us how to say good morning – “Ohayo Goizamasu”, complete with a bow.

When I became a taxi driver, I met people of many races and nationalities, including Japanese. However, for a long time, I never met a Japanese person in the morning. I therefore never got the chance to use the two Japanese words I knew – that is until I moved to Kosovo. The moment I went to pick that client and saw that he was Japanese, I was elated. I couldn’t wait for him to get in the car so that I could speak Japanese for the first time. He got into the back seat and smiled warmly. I smiled back and, with all the “Japaneseness” I could muster, I bowed and greeted him, “Ohayo Goizamasu”. I believe I must have said it rather well because he was a bit taken aback. He answered back in the same words and further added (in Swahili), much to my surprise, “Unajua Kijapani?” which means, “You mean you know Japanese?” It was at that point I wished I had taken time to learn a few more words in Japanese. That would have been an interesting conversation, me speaking Japanese and my new best friend speaking Swahili. That however was not going to happen. This was Kosovo.

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.