The Taxi Ride
As the time came for me to leave the Youth Hostel in the beautiful city of Chengdu, my friend, Lisa, would assist me in hailing a cab. After four or five whizzed right past us, Lisa stepped into the middle of this six-lane street, and as all traffic in three lanes screeched to a stop, my ride to the airport appeared. After an animated conversation between Lisa and the taxi driver, (all taking place in the middle lane with traffic going on both sides,) the fare was agreed to. I hopped in, and we were off. This taxi driver enjoyed running red lights, making left-hand turns from the right lane on red lights, driving the wrong way on one-way streets, driving on the sidewalk when the traffic was too slow for him, and yelling at people who dared to get in his way with their bicycles. (I'm not kidding-no exaggeration!!!)
Anyway, this guy was not about to spend any money on the toll for the brand new beautiful airport highway that gets you there in 10 minutes—no siree! We went down so many back roads and side streets in little neighborhoods that I was beginning to think I was being hijacked. All the while, with hands barely on the steering wheel, arms flying everywhere, the driver kept an exciting travelogue going, pointing at this house or that road, waving at passers-by (often with his middle finger) for my entertainment.
Finally, he pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust as he encountered a vehicle blockade in front of a small bridge over a canal. On the other side of the moat--canal, was a maximum security facility that was right out of the movies. A man came toward the taxi, yelling and waving his arms. The taxi driver got out of the car and began the same form of communication. Of course, as these things usually work out, in a moment, they abruptly stopped; the man got in the backseat of the cab (I was in the front seat), the driver got in the cab and began to drive across the bridge while another person stopped traffic on the other side. And, by the way, the fare just doubled.
At this point, I am convinced we are going through the prison gate just ahead (it was opened while we were crossing the bridge, and two guards appeared waving machine guns). The driver weaved right, and we followed a narrow path between the prison wall and the moat. At last, we came to an intersection of six muddy dirt farm roads going out across rice paddies.
The man in the backseat, who talked non-stop throughout this portion of the trip, was yelling and waving about which direction to go as we traversed these fields for about 15 minutes. I could now see that we were approaching an eight-foot high fence, and as an airplane moved overheard at what I swear could not have been more than a hundred feet above us, I realized we were close to the airport.
The fellow in the backseat yells to stop, or at least I think he did, because I can no longer hear. He gets out of the car. The driver pays him some money and off we go. We are now driving parallel to the fence on a dangerously rutted road.
I can see the terminal in the distance as we turn a corner. We both also see a garbage dump immediately in front of us. The driver slams on the brakes and motions for me to get out of the car. After much arm waving and yelling, having my luggage thrown out of the car, and having my hand slapped, I understand that I have now "arrived" at the airport and it is time to pay for the taxi.
I am now standing on a pile of garbage, my ears still ringing from the roar of the jet, with my luggage, trying to find a walking path to get around to where the terminal is. I walk about 500 meters, and one of those motorcycles hooked up to a rickshaw begins making its way towards me. The driver is most happy to take me to the airport's front door--for a fee, of course. Two hours after leaving the hostel, I arrive safely at the terminal with one more little story to tell the grandchildren--assuming I will have any--and assuming I can remember anything…. June 2006
