Taxi!

I usually take a taxi cab to and from my internship. The cost, round trip is about four US dollars. Hey, that’s cheaper than round trip on the bus in NYC!

My internship, the Ministry of Human Services, is located in the heart of (midtown) Georgetown. It’s a fifteen minute drive. In the final stretch, I pass through about half a mile of outdoor markets (produce, clothing, toiletries, and their vendors) to get to my office. Yesterday, I walked outside in search of a taxi home. They line the streets opposite side of the vendors and wait for customers- or call to them.

All the drivers (I saw) are men. They usually twirl umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun. Some men make cat calls, more specifically, noises that mimic sucking your teeth or a kissing sound. “Hey pretty gal, come in my car. And you can pay me”. I shake my head no. I’ve made it a habit not to speak unless necessary in the attempt to not give away the fact that I’m foreign. “Mama, where can I drive you?”. Another head shake. One gentleman yells “hey” and when I turn my head, he gives me a crude gesture that cannot be politely re-illustrated via this blog. Lovely. Now, had I been in the US, I would not have hesitated to share a middle finger or swear word. But, the reality is that I’m not in US. So, I suck it up and mimic the behavior of other local women: I ignore it.

I meticulously look for a yellow car marked taxi and walk pass the men who are drivers of unmarked vehicles (which later learn really means nothing in terms of safety).
After walking the strip, and turning onto another block, I find a “yellow taxi”. Although the guy next to him shades me with his umbrella and reaches for the door, I shake my head no and point to the “yellow taxi”. The owner gets off the hood, opens both of our doors, and begins to drive. “John Smith Street” I say in my obviously American accent. He repeats the street and begins to drive.

After about ten minutes he says “John Smith Street. You can direct me?” Oh. No. My internal monologue goes nuts: Why didn’t this man say he didn’t know where we were going? Why didn’t he ask me this ten minutes ago? This can’t be safe. Fortunately, I was able to give him directions. I’m very aware of my surroundings (thank you sincerely years of Girl Scouts navigation training) and pay close attention to make sure the driver follows my directions.

When we arrive to my gate he says “That will be $1,000”. No, it’s not. I’ve been here long enough to know it’s only $500. I want to say “Are you ripping me off because I’m a woman, because I’m foreign, or because I’m alone?” I’m suspicious it’s a little bit of everything. But, I don’t argue. I pay him.

“What’s this street named again?”
“John Smith Street” I say as I get out and slam the door.