Societal Satire in Shorts
Back Seat Driver
S. G. Lacey
Guangzhou, China, Asia: 58 kilometers – 1 hour – ¥400
5 of us stand in a loose semicircular arc outside the factory’s main exit door, waiting for my ride. The temperature, at only 32°C, is not nearly as oppressive as the humidity, which hovers around 90% currently. A few sweaty minutes later, a silver Brilliance Jinbei X30 minivan rolls up to our location and I move towards it, anxious for the relative cooling of the vehicle’s likely inadequate air conditioning system.
Eager to accommodate, the driver jumps out exuberantly to operate the rear sliding door, nearly colliding with one of the local plant workers who is equally inclined to help. Sometimes this pampered treatment feels excessive, but I’ll gladly accept it after the progress made on the manufacturing floor this week.
Carrying out the necessary parting courtesies to the team for their hospitality, I settle into the comfortable expanse of the passenger side, middle row, bucket seat. The front passengers’ seat is slid so far forward that it would be hard to squeeze a backpack between the cloth and the dashboard, leaving an absurd amount of leg room for my perch. A rapid stream of Mandarin through the open window from one of my hosts hopefully confirms to the driver that my destination is the airport, and we’re off.
We roll down the service road between rows of blocky 4-story factory buildings, through a pair security check point gates where my bags are thoroughly searched, and out into the chaos of evening rush hour.
Driving rules here apply but are confusing. As far as I can tell anyone turning onto the road has the right of way. Basically, just keep creep out until everyone stops. Viewed from above, this steady flow of traffic resembles the confluence of two small steams; with the cars represented by leaves flowing through the turbulence in fits and starts, but all eventually finding their way into the larger waterway.
The auditory stimulation is significant: noisy diesel engines, roadside construction jackhammers, barking stray dogs, all overlaid with a layer of incessant honking. The Chinese tend to use their horns as a preemptive warning, or maybe just for fun. The frequency and volume of these blaring bursts helps to dictate my level of concern, from relaxed lounging to jerking upright, clenching my seatbelt. I put on my headphones and start up a podcast in an effort to help tune out the myriad distractions.
Throughout this roadway maze, my chauffeur, a male of around 60 years old with thinning black hair and thick glasses, may as well be a robotic statue. Smooth on both the gas and brake, I thank my lucky stars I haven’t ended up with a twitchy, both feet, simultaneous gas pedal and brake drivers which are so prevalent in this part of the world.
Feeling safe for the next few seconds, my eyes drift away from the nearly identical 7-passenger van sliding by just millimeters from the side window, and to the high-rise apartment beyond. The pending 50-story tower is cloaked in bamboo scaffolding and green cloth, clearly still a work in progress. Another few thousand new residents definitely aren’t going to help the already congested roadways.
On this trip, I unfortunately don’t get to see one of the truly unique vehicles native to the developing regions globally, a 3-wheel hybrid tractor. With two massive knobby tires in the back, and a smaller front wheel controlled by a series of levers located in a semi-enclosed cab, this archaic farming machinery is still readily used on the city streets. These unruly rigs apparently have a maximum speed of around 20 km per hour, which significantly hinders traffic flow, but rarely seems to bother their oblivious operators.
However, the sighting of a scooter carrying a presumable father/mother combo with their duo of young children sandwiched between them, all except the male driver sans helmet, does satisfy my bewildered amusement for the ride. While not close to my record observation of 6 humans on a single 2-wheeled vehicle, I applaud the Asian efficiency in all modes of transportation.
Just over an hour later the pointed spires of the airport come into view. I’ve already to paid for the transfer through my hotel bill, so there’s no need to go through the sometime difficult process of settling up in another language and currency. My driver, already having placed my luggage on the curb, bows gently as I scoop up my possessions.
I take one last longingly look at the expansive leg room of the van’s rear seat; I won’t have this luxury again during the 13-hour transit flight back to the United States. Time for a quick salty snack and a partially chilled beer.
Paris, France, Europe: 8 kilometers – 27 minutes – €36
At least someone is picking us up, assuming the tiny box approaching can be considered a vehicle. We’ve been standing on the corner trying to flag down a cab for at least 10 minutes, so beggars can’t be choosers.
Our shrunken ride turns out to be a black Peugeot 107 hatchback; they have larger phone booths in this country. The only thing more disconcerting than the car itself is its operator, a Frenchman who can only be described as perturbed when he meets his next fare.
There seems to be some confusion on our destination as we get in the cab. My wife’s French is passable, and improves after a few drinks, but I’m not sure if efforts at conversation in the native language are helping, or just conspire to further anger the driver. Throughout this vacation, I’ve gotten the sense many French in the service industry are frustrated by the presence of invasive American tourists in their lovely country.
The interior of the car, albeit tiny, is at least clean and organized. Jacques Petit’s taxi license, displayed in a plastic sleeve taped to the glove box, is the only visual encumbrance on the entire beige leather interior, which is wiped to a glossy sheen. Between the name and the purple beret sported by our driver, there’s no confusion on where his heritage or national allegiances lie.
Another observation I quickly make once we get moving is that this gentleman may have been a Formula One athlete at an earlier stage in life. Proceeding at breakneck speed over speedbumps and through roundabouts, often with no regard for lane markings or posted signage, is not a good recipe for my stomach. My lady and I have spent the day eating our way across Paris. Now, the combination of crepes, fondue, and multiple bottles of Côtes du Rhône is quite unhappy.
The weather is beautiful, so I drop down the window in the hopes that some air will help clear my head. Immediately, our driver barks a command in French which sounds like “Arrête!”, while simultaneously turning up the stereo, which is playing some form of gypsy jazz, to an almost nearly unbearable level. I take the hint and roll the small pane back up.
The taxi’s fare meter is turning over at an incredible rate, matched only by my own convulsing innards. I can’t wait to reach our destination, but am simultaneously memorized by the scenery and velocity of travel.
Racing along the banks for the Seine River, we zoom past the reflective glass walls of the Louvre Museum on our right, followed by the blocky white stone Arc de Triomphe, then the industrial steel girders of the Eiffel Tower loom up on the left; all these iconic global landmarks are within 5 kilometers of each other. At last, our hotel is visible through the tiny windshield of the car.
Barely slowing, Jacques threads between two double decker tourist buses, then veers hard left into the hotel’s driveway. Pulling a fistful of Euros from my pocket, I give them a rough cursory count to make sure they match the ungodly high sum on the meter, then stuff the wad into our driver’s hairy paw.
My wife and I slide across the slippery leather and exit the ride, happy to have our feet back on “sol solide”.
Arusha, Tanzania, Africa: 230 kilometers – 7 hours – $175
Outside in the faint light of early morning the heat is not yet oppressive, but clearly trending in that direction. The air conditioning unit of this archaic Range Rover has long since broken, so I’m deliberating between rolling down the window to improve visibility versus staying sealed up to keep the dust out.
Laying out ahead through the windshield is a straight stretch of road leading off into the flat expanse of the horizon. “Road” may be a generous term for what is essentially a packed down track of tan dirt which avoids the acacia trees that dot the landscape. This vehicle’s robust but weary shocks are the only solace for the rugged terrain. These 1990’s era Range Rovers were made for this kind of exploration.
There’s 5 people in the car. Our guide Abu is driving, with the remaining 4 of us tourists alternating seats every hour or so to get different views of the landscape and wildlife. Currently, I’m enjoying the VIP viewing angle in the front passenger seat.
With the windows still up, a mingled scent of body odor and diesel fuel lingers. Aboriginal music plays low on the radio, intermittently interrupted by barking commentary from our safari leader as he points out various natural features in his broken English, tinted with a heavy local Swahili accent.
Currently, Abu is relaxed and silent in the cockpit seat next to me, holding the steering wheel casually with one hand despite the rough road conditions. He’s wearing olive canvas pants, a khaki short sleeve shirt, and wide brimmed hat woven from some native grasses. His sunglasses are tucked into the left breast pocket of his shirt, while the corner of a blue bandana peaks out the mirrored pocket on the right.
This is the only outfit I’ve seen him dressed in over the last 4 days; he enters his tent each night wearing it, and emerges at dawn each morning with the same practical attire.
Abu points a boney black hand out the driver’s side window and informs our crew “Rhino on your right,” nonchalantly. Apparently after 20 years of African safari exploration, these animal sightings become mundane.
As if on cue, the massive dark grey beast emerges from behind a row of scrub bush which she’s inevitably been feasting on. Even through the glint of the dirt-smeared windshield, the massive scale of this animal is obvious: bugling, powerful muscle over a thick, tough hide.
The SUV slows to a crawl, and my accommodating friend on the driver’s side cranks down the window for a less incumbered view. In through the open space rushes the heat of the desert landscape, sweet smells of dry grass, and the chirping chorus of song birds. This sensory invasion into the car’s stuffy interior is a pleasant reminder of the expansive natural environ we’re currently enjoying.
I hear the click of a camera shutter as my comrades in the back snap a few pictures of this majestic creature. Our guide looks over at me and grins, displaying a set of crooked yellow teeth, while holding his right hand up, all 5 fingers fully extended. I nod back in silent appreciation. We’ve just completed our sighting of the Africa’s “Big 5” wild game animals, a crowning achievement for any safari goers.
After a few more minutes of viewing, and a sufficient amount of celebratory high fives, we move on, soon encountering an especially deep rut across the road. Abu’s rugged hiking boot clad feet deftly manipulate the clutch, gas, and brake, while simultaneously turning the wheel. We navigate the ditch at a 45° angle with nary a bump, then straighten out and speed off in search of more African wildlife. Abu is earning a good tip today.
Doha, Qatar, Middle East: 15 kilometers – 56 minutes – Free
Our chauffer is immaculately dressed, clad in a perfectly tailored 3-piece black suit with even darker black leather driving gloves. At least that’s how he looked half an hour ago when he opened the door of the stretch limo for me.
From my current luxurious padded seat in the back of our opulent ride, the heavily tinted window now shields the cockpit and driver from view.
The side windows are similar tinted, but still allow some visibility to the outside world. We roll past a massive stadium complex adjacent to the road. Several cranes flanking the curved concrete wall suggest this structure is still under construction. This is the third such arena project we’ve passed thus far on the journey. Apparently, the Qatari are taking their upcoming World Cup hosting obligations seriously.
I glance over at my two companions, my translator and our pending business partner. The former is dressed in a grey linen business suit in the Western style, while the later wears formal Middle Eastern attire: a long white thobe with decorative red and white ghutra adorning his head.
Conversation on the ride is light; standard pleasantries when we got in the car, then a few friendly tourist details from my English-speaking colleague on various sites as we pass by.
Arabic music from speakers deftly hidden in the embellished interior upholstery help to fill the long stretches of silence. This acoustic style is dominated by flutes and cymbals layered on top of a cloth drum baseline with minimal lyrics. It feels like I should be doing meditation or yoga; the interior space of this limo is probably big enough.
The only thing missing from making this a truly lavishing voyage is alcohol, which is no longer allowed in the country. My last time in a limousine was for brother-in-law’s wedding and there was no shortage of booze. This current situation is a much different experience.
Thus far, the ride has been very smooth, especially considering the extreme length of this vehicle, which must make it challenging to navigate in the crowded streets. However, maneuvering can’t be too difficult considering the incredibly slow pace of travel on the roadways. I doubt if we’ve gotten above 30 kph during the entire trip.
Nearly an hour after departing, the stretch limo rolls up to the curb at our destination. Seconds later, the rear door opens revealing the same immaculately groomed chauffeur. How did he get out of the driver’s seat and back to this door so quickly?
I step out from the cool chamber into the oppressive heat and humidity of the Doha summer night. My foot lands on a plush maroon carpet which extends up the sidewalk to our restaurant entrance. The building is a massive stone structure reminiscent of a medieval castle, aside from the much more modern spotlighting which casts long, striking shadows on the marble block walls.
I turn to thank our driver, but he has vanished back onto the car just as quickly as he appeared. This is going to be an interesting dinner.
​
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, South America: 0.7 kilometers – 33 minutes – R$40
The narrow street is packed with a varied menagerie of dancing people, vending carts, and parked cars. Vivid colors shift and pop everywhere: flowing dresses, elaborate headgear, intricate floats, shiny sequins, waving flags.
We’re not moving, or caring. There’s no timeline when on vacation, and plenty of visual stimulation in every direction.
All the windows are rolled down, letting in pleasant aromas of lit cigars, local fruit stand offerings like papaya and jabuticaba, along with ocean salt, which all help mask the diesel exhaust from our ride’s non-existent muffler.
Each of us is rocking a 600 mm bottle of cold “cerveja”, garnished with a generous lime wedge. Life is good.
Drinking in the car, or really anywhere, is not an issue down here in South America. We’ve been bar hopping since noon, and are now headed across town to a highly recommended Brazilian steakhouse to put down a base meal for the inventible night of partying which lays ahead.
The only person who appears to be having more fun than us three comrades is our cab driver. At about 25 years of age and adorned in swim trunks and a tank top, he could easily be a member of our crew, rather than a paid transport aide. Every time a new song comes on over the radio, loud base lines thumping the entire car via the trunk subwoofer, he motions to us animatedly, apparently in an effort to check if this next Reggaeton beat is up to our standards.
Our ride, a boxy, well-traveled Fiat Uno is clearly his personal vehicle based on the dashboard décor. A hula girl on a suction cup, a few tie-dyed bandanas, a string of wooden rosary beads; all these are the stereotypical signs of a Rio de Janeiro local.
Three young Brazilian ladies walk past our car on the passenger’s side. Their natural endowments are evident through tight jean shorts and thin white cloth blouses given the humidity of the warm evening. Since we’re stopped, it seems logical to try making friends.
Two minutes of disjointed conversation, us in broken Spanish and the ladies in fluent Portuguese, we’re rolling again. The Fiat now has 6 guests, two people stacked in the front passenger seat, and 4 squeezed in an odd combination of laps, hips, and legs in the back. A strong scent of coconut oil sun tan lotion emanating from the new occupants provides a pleasing addition to the musty interior air.
Fireworks are exploding all around us, both literally and figuratively.
Our young male driver clearly realizes the opportunity, and makes his best effort to expedite the car’s progress through the teeming throngs in the road ahead. A wheelbarrow full of beer and soda on ice slides just inches past the front bumper, it’s merchant cursing loudly as we pass. Seconds later, there’s a loud thump on the rear quarter panel. Turning around and glancing through the back window, I see a boy on stilts in a bright red cape toppling over into the mob.
Despite the valiant efforts of our navigator, 3 blocks and 10 minutes later, we realized the night is too young, and the crowds to dense, to spend in a cab. Plus, our voluptuous new acquaintances know a place with good mojitos and a dance floor down the next alley.
Considering how short a distance we traveled, the fare would be expensive if not for the favorable currency rates. We hand our friendly driver two wrinkled $20 Real notes, which amounts to a generous tip, and pile out. The remainder of the night will be spent walking for free.
The Fiat rolls off the curb, rear shocks squawking happily about being unencumbered from the 6-passenger load. As the car crawls slowly away, black diesel exhaust spews out from the undercarriage, engulfing the oblivious menagerie of colorful characters occupying the street.
Whanganui, New Zealand, Oceania: 72 kilometers – 2 hours – A tank of gas
This is definitely not the most comfortable ride of my life. The skin on my right bicep is already showing the flushed marks which are a telltale sign of future bruising from clinging to the side of the bed. And I’ve lost all feeling in the lower left half of my body. At least that should limit any pain from the inevitable cramping to come.
I’m currently squatting in the back of a white Nissan Datsun pickup truck. Not that the paint color can be distinguished from my position. The inside of the bed is completely scratched and rusted out; every time I shift my position the reddish-brown stains on my flip-flip clad feet continue to grow. I’m fairly confident this vehicle was produced before I was born, and our driver is likely its original owner.
I’m perched on the centerline side, the right in this country, so I can observe oncoming traffic on the road, which is barely wide enough for one car at points. My left arm is grasping a rope meant to stabilize the 15-foot aluminum canoe that is angled from the tailgate, up over the cab, then cantilevered out above the truck’s hood, where the rope’s tie-off point is.
It’s the thrill of the chase, I tell myself again as one of the pickup’s rear wheels finds yet another of the seemingly endless potholes on this winding, narrow road.
Through the open sliding rear window to the cabin, I catch bits and pieces of the ongoing conversation between the driver and my girlfriend, which is often muffled by the classic rock on the radio, and the rush of wind when we find an open stretch of road. The gentleman is old enough to be her grandfather, and even after having a seemingly coherent conversation with him about our destination before departing town, I’m still not completely convinced on this senior’s cognitive function, so am staying very vigilant.
Despite my current physical ailments, I’m exceedingly pleased to be outside. The lush green foliage we’re driving past is bathed in bright sun, with just a few wispy cirrus clouds casting intermittent shadows across the land. The temperature, already above 20°C before noon, is unseasonably warm for January, and we’ve got 4 clear days ahead of us in the forecast for our upcoming canoeing adventure, a rare occurrence in this wet region of New Zealand.
Finally, a signpost on the left side of the road marks our desired river entry point. Our driver is still going 45 km, but when my girlfriend identifies the marking with a yell and animated gesture, the entire momentum of the vehicle changes.
The old man hits the brakes aggressively, while simultaneously jerking the wheel to the left. The little truck lurches off the packed gravel track into 3 inches of muddy earth on the turnout which further exacerbates the already abrupt stop.
Not prepared for this sudden reaction, my left arm strains to hold the rope and resist the canoe as it lurches forward, while simultaneously trying not to get expelled over the right side of the truck bed. Life jackets, backpacks, and paddles all come flying at me from their seemingly secure location wedged against the tailgate.
My lady and our elderly driver depart the cab, taking care to navigate the mud, and find me entrapped in a tangled mess of canoeing gear. A few hearty laughs at my expense ensue. Our senior citizen navigator seems especially amused as he rubs his white beard, snaps his suspender straps against his green flannel shirt, and chuckles loudly.
Convinced nothing is broken, especially my bones, I reach down and grab a beer from our cooler, which is now lying open on its side in the truck bed. Cheers to this crazy old man.
​
Portland, Oregon, USA, North America: 14 miles – 31 minutes – $48
The curb outside the PDX arrival terminal is bustling as usual. Navigating the lined crosswalk in front of an SUV that doesn’t look to excited about stopping, I glance down at the ridesharing app on my phone to confirm the license plate for my ride.
Perfect. A nondescript silver Toyota Prius, probably the most common car in the taxi universe here in Portland.
Confirming my theory, in the span of the minute, three identical Prius pull up to the designated pick-up curb, the only difference being the license plates, which are nearly indistinguishable in the dark grey evening light.
Eventually I find my mark, and after confirming name and destination address with the driver, toss my luggage into the back seat, then slide in after it. This approach is always easier than loading up the trunk of a private vehicle, which is often filled with extra clothes, groceries, beach chairs, or other random personal items. Plus, keeping my bags close makes me less likely to forget them in this current weary state.
Resting my tired and throbbing head, dehydrated from 20-plus hours of plane travel, against the cold glass of window I realize there’s water streaming down my cheek. Fortunately, it’s from outside, where a steady rain has started. This is a reassuring observation for my fatigued and unstable mind.
Trying to stay awake, I scan the car’s interior aimlessly. On the center console sits a basket full of candy. The usual fair of name brand sugary sweets, likely recycled from the recent Halloween holiday. Not exactly what we need to encourage our overweight society to be eating.
There’s a general feel of cleanliness in the car. A box of antiseptic wipes is visible at my feet, and the cherry-shaped air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror is the likely contributor to the fruity scent in the cabin. Poking out from a pouch hanging off the back of passenger seat is a cell phone power cord with several adapter attachments. A nice touch.
My driver is a heavyset female who looks to be approximately 50 years old. Before I can surmise any additional life details, I encounter her most polarizing trait. She’s incredibly chatty, and apparently oblivious to this current passenger’s current need for rest.
Over the subsequent minutes, I learn she grew up in Michigan, has two kids in college, is happily divorced, and has recently started kickboxing lessons which she “reeeally enjoys!”. Hooray. This barrage of sharing personal life details always surprises me; I know less information about most of my coworkers. Maybe another one of her new passions is interacting with complete strangers.
Evidently nudged by a few of my mumbled one-word answers to her verbal onslaught, “Susie”, as identified by her app profile, starts scanning through her music presets. I was content with the original offering; Pavarotti and Enya in succession have soothed my mind on what must be some sort of mood lifting opera station. As my hyperactive driver transitions to the screeching lyrics of Pink the local pop channel, I bump the volume up a few notches on my headphones, hoping a financial podcast will drown out the car speakers.
I’ve done this drive numerous times and typically the highway is the fastest route even with traffic. However, my driver this time is apparently using some obscure navigation software, which has an annoying tendency to take surface streets as well as make random, sporadic turns. However, it’s not worth trying to explain, so I let the Prius and its operator meander along through stoplights on a disjointed route to NW Portland.
At last, we cross the I405 Fremont Bridge and enter the familiar surface streets of my neighborhood. Grabbing my bags off the back seat, I offer the obligatory “Thank You” and pile out of the car.
As the environmentally friendly vehicle with her chatty owner rolls off down the hill, my phone buzzes with the automatic Uber driver review request. Robotically, I hit 5 stars. Does anyone ever provide a review less than that regardless of the actual service? At least I’m safely home.