The Problem with meters

In the last few months, I have heard metered taxis lauded as cheaper and less stressful than taking a regular taxi which almost inevitably ends with a ‘discussion’ with the driver about the fare. So, I was pleasantly pleased to find one as I left to attend a literary reading in a suburb of Cairo last night. As the journey began, I looked out as we crossed the Nile and thought about how beautiful the lights shining on the water were. I was excited for this event, unsure what I would find, but feeling that this would be “Ethnographic” with a capital E. As the first event I attended specifically as a part of my fieldwork, I had high hopes, and not a little trepidation. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t look at the meter until several minutes later. I was alarmed at the price, noting that the meter was rising quite rapidly, running through pounds like water. It struck me as curious, but I thought perhaps it was just the fact that we were in traffic.

As the drive continued, the meter continued to press on. I couldn’t believe how quickly it was rising. I did a quick calculation in my head of what this would mean if it kept up at this rate. I began to panic as I realized that I wasn’t carrying much cash. I thought it would be plenty, but at the rate the taxi was charging me, I risked not having enough to get home. What would I do if I were stranded in this faraway suburb? I ran through the possibilities: perhaps I could call a friend to drive out and pick me up, or take a taxi to the outer reaches of the subway station—but I don’t exactly know where those are yet, so the prospect of directing a cab to an unfamiliar subway stop seemed less than ideal. Perhaps, I mused, I could pay with the $20USD I still had in my wallet, or I could take a cab home and have my roommate run downstairs to pay the cab if I didn’t have enough. Perhaps we could stop at an ATM so I could get more cash.

All these scenarios were running through my head as the taxi continued on its way. Of course, I had no idea where we were going since I’d never been before and have only the vaguest idea of the general geography. I had an address and that was all. I didn’t know the necessary directions to tell the driver, who instead asked another taxi driver. We continued on our way. I was suspicious as it seemed, even to my directionally-challenged-self that we seemed to have gotten off the autostrade and back on again in a big loop. When we finally arrived in the neighborhood of the bookstore, he asked me where it was located. I told him the address; he stopped and asked some teenagers hanging out on a corner. I succeed in speaking only enough to demonstrate the limits of my knowledge—both of where I’m going and of my ability to speak the language.

Finally, after driving around in circles (literally), he dropped me off at the bookstore. I asked what the fare was. “70LE,” he responded. My roommate had suggested I pay around 30. But, she noted, if I didn’t have change for a 50, they were likely to keep it. I was grudgingly prepared to pay 50. I hesitated, wondering if I should just give him the 50 and leave it at that. 70 was extortion. But, there was the matter of this meter. The meter said 70. And we had been driving for a long time (around 1hour) and had covered a long distance. Maybe it was a fair price. That is within the realm of normal for an airport fare, and this had seemed as long as the drive from the airport. And, I thought to myself, the whole point of a metered cab is that you have the fare right there, with no hassle or haggling. If I want the convenience of a metered fare, I should be willing to risk the consequences—that the fare will in fact be higher than I like.

So, I handed over my 100LE and asked for change back. Unsure, at this point, how I would get home since I had only 1EGP left in my wallet. I waited for change. He gave me back 20. I waited for the other 10. He said he didn’t have it. I waited, expecting him to look again. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll get it and bring it back”. This I knew to be a lie. Or at least I had little hope that he would come driving back. I got out of the taxi with my 20LE and waited for a few minutes outside, livid over the fact that I had been so egregiously ripped off. Not just that the fare was excessively high, but that he had the gall to take an additional 10 pounds!

Inwardly seething, I entered the bookstore. It’s a very lovely bookshop with a wonderful collection of books in English and a good selection in Arabic. I wandered around, waiting for the event to begin. I looked at the books. After wandering around, I sat down and I continued to wait. Then I got up to look around again, taking in the books. I noticed that there was a book that I’d been interested in. It was 20LE. I sat back down and waited. I had noticed an ATM next door as I walked in. Since I had time, I ran out and got cash. I quickly bought the book I’d been eying and sat back down just as the event was starting. I had arrived at the bookshop an hour earlier.

The kicker is, after this crazy trip and long wait, the event was in Arabic. Entirely in Arabic, not a word of English. I understood little. Words and phrases, certainly. But the thread of the conversation eluded me entirely. I can tell you they spoke about writing, about books, about genres and different kinds of writing, but what the writers on this panel had to say about any of the above topics, I know not. I listened, picking up what I could, and then left before the audience Q and A.

What book did I buy? The irony, or perhaps just appropriateness, of the purchase didn’t strike me until this morning when I sat down to write. I bought the book “Taxi” by Khaled Al-Khamisy. It is a collection of tales culled from the author’ conversations with taxi drivers in Cairo. Perhaps my evening was more ethnographic than I had expected.

As they say here, welcome in Cairo!