Taxi drivers

I had a article published on planning this week, you can find it in Real Travel, a magazine that graces the hallowed shelves of WH Smith. Obviously if I'd followed my own advice I would have been imparting my usual witty repartee. As I haven't, you get an excerpt from my forthcoming book. I've just arrived in Hanoi after a two day train journey from Beijing...

Taxi drivers are genetically linked. If you review their DNA you will see they are all descendants of a thieving shyster who operated a camel taxi across the caravan routes of the Eastern Sahara. His trick was to agree a mutually acceptable charge for conveying customers across the great expanse, and increase the rate half way across. 'Wadda yer gonna walk back?' Over the years their scams have become more sophisticated, but essentially they are the same dromedary owning, thieving bastards.

No sooner have I lugged my bags from the train than I discover a shyster beside me.

'Official taxi, Sir?'

Official? Sir? He's olive skinned, about five feet five inches high, and has a skin condition running along his upper lip that makes him look like he's been playing the trumpet recently.

'Official taxi, meter.'

'Meter?' I say.

'Meter,' repeats.

'How much to Hanoi Capital Hotel, Old Quarter?'

'Meter, Sir.'

'OK, official taxi meter?'

'Yes,' he says, pointing to an official looking train crest on the breast pocket of his light blue shirt.

I'm knackered, I've had hardly any sleep, its hot, I need a shower. All of these things run through my head, each of which will do as an excuse for being ripped off if anyone asks.

'OK, where's the taxi?'

He picks up my bag and I follow him out into a wall of screaming motorcycle noise. Its like someone's disturbed the biggest hornets nest in the world and they're very angry. We walk past the official taxi rank. Usually I'm all for queue jumping, but this is a bad omen.

'The official taxi rank is here,' I shout after my bag, and the man striding purposefully away from the official taxi rank, with it. He stops by a small mini van. The front driver's side wing is severely dented, with what looks suspiciously like a motorcycle shape.

'Air-con inside, quickly please.' He throws my bags into the cab. He knows I'll follow them.

'Official taxi, right?' I say, standing by the side door he's slid open for me. He points to the meter. I swear I see it move before the taxi does. Pulling away into a million motorcycles, nearly wiping out a dozen of them in the process, he points to the meter once again, 'Taxi meter,' he repeats with extra emphasis, in case I don't understand taxi driver double talk. I slump back in my chair and watch it spin around so fast it becomes a red neon blur. If this taxi is on the meter its attached to the pistons.

The meter situation is further complicated by the Vietnamese currency, the only money in the world that makes you laugh when you say it. The mighty Dong. I know I get 28,000 of them for a pound, but I don't have a single one in my pockets. Yes, I know I have one in my trousers, but not in my pockets.

Its late morning and as we skirt Hoan Kiem Lake. The sun is shining like a golden button floating in a tin of blue paint. We've nearly killed two hundred motorcyclists, but then, they do all seem to be students of Kamikaze. The roads are entirely bereft of any form of traffic control measures, save the occasional set of traffic lights. After being held at them for but a few seconds they resemble a starting grid in which the racers have been replaced with a giant swarm of crash helmet wearing bees.

The motorcyclists communicate through blasts on the horn that vary in length depending on the rider's proximity to death. Prolonged use normally precedes a collision. The fact these communications are universally ignored by other road users is not an issue. The important thing is to press down as hard as you can at every possible moment.

Eventually we're scouring the Old Quarter looking for my hotel, the one my driver promised he knew like the back of his officially stamped taxi licence. Every road its not in is costing me thousands of Dong. One road was so chocked with motorcycles he had to reverse back. This manoeuvre alone cost me twenty thousand Dong. I finally spot it and we pull up outside. The meter is showing 467,000 Dong. Half a million Dong? Who does he think I am Lord Rothchild?

'How much for Dollar, ' I ask.

'Ten Dollar.'

I try to make a calculation in my head. Right, 28,000 Dong to the pound, 1.67 Dollars to the pound. Do I simply times the Pound - Dong rate by .67? No, that's no right. What about divide by 1.67? Could be. What the fuck does that make it then? I notice the meter is still running at 5,000 Dong per second. This flight into the unknown world of mathematics is bankrupting me.

'OK,' I say digging into my bag, turn off your meter.'

I am dismayed to discover the smallest denomination I have is twenty Dollars, because I'm now faced with the other unifying fact about taxi drivers. But I soldier on anyway.

'I've only got a Twenty, do you have change?'

The shock by which taxi drivers across the world react to this simply question never ceases to amaze me. Its like I've asked him if his wife is a turbot. He starts to pat his pockets like he's on fire. The expression on his face turns from a man about to become the richest taxi driver in Hanoi to one who's been told he only has an hour to live.

'No change.'

'No change? What happens when you collect a fare? Do you drive home and deposit it under your grandmother's arse?'

He can't understand a word I'm saying but he gets the sentiment, and he knows I will not part with this note without seeing something in return. I manage to extricate enough change for the taxi fare to cost me about nine pounds. Three times the going rate, but respectable. Come on, I'm knackered, I've hardly slept, I'm hot...