The Taxi Incident (April 24, 2006)
On Monday, having more-or-less recovered from our trip visit to India, we decide to visit Odel, one of our favourite stores in Colombo. We took a three-wheeler there with one of Fay’s young cousins at a pre-agreed fare of Rs 150. We stopped at Cotton Collection first, so Fay could return some shirts that didn’t quite fit right and look for some appropriate substitutes. About half an hour later, we were on our way, in the same three-wheeler. Before too long, we arrived at Odel. We paid an extra Rs 50 to the driver for the time he spent waiting at Cotton Collection, and we all walked away happy.
All I wanted at Odel was a T-shirt, but it is difficult to get out of there in less then a few hours. First, we got fruit juices, then there was jewelry to be checked out, then clothing – lots of clothing. I looked over the selection of food, and the books (I read a little of a book called A Cause Untrue, by David Blacker – I found it quite compelling, and find myself rather sorry I didn’t purchase it), and the music, and found the T-shirt I wanted. Then I waited. Finally, Fay and her cousin came, and we went to the DeliFrance on the ground floor for coffee and pastries. Then, ice cream from Il Gelato, followed by buying a kilogram of various flavours of gelato to take home. I was sceptical about the ice cream making it through the twenty minute drive back in the tropical heat, but they have clearly done this before.
It was time to go home. Fay’s cousin and I stayed back while Fay negotiated the the trip back home. Primarily foreigners and rich Sri Lankans shop at Odel, and it can be difficult to get a fair deal, but the third driver she spoke to agreed to do it for Rs 150. Fay summoned her cousin and me, and we got in. The trip was uneventful, although it is invariably necessary to give further directions when we get close by – the house is off on a small side street which can be very hard to find.
We arrived, and her cousin and I stepped out. The next thing I knew, things seemed to be getting rather heated between Fay and our driver. It transpired that he had decided to unilaterally increase the fare by Rs 100. It transpired equally that Fay had no intention of giving him one Sri Lankan cent more than the previously agreed upon price. I confess that, not speaking Sinhala, I have no idea of what was actually said, but he had apparently threatened to go to the police if we did not pay the additional Rs 100. She offered him the originally negotiated fare; but he refused and left.
A few hours later, a rather put-upon-looking officer of the local constabulary arrived by bicycle. He listened to Fay and her aunt as they described the situation, but he wasn’t here to resolve things; his errand was merely to inform us that we had been summoned to the local police station in Welawetta at two the following afternoon. This was a matter of some concern, as our return flight to Toronto was scheduled for Wednesday. It seemed unlikely that anyone would interfere with our travel plans over a matter of Rs 100 (about $Cdn 1.08), but you never know. It didn’t seem like a matter worth trying to bribe our way out of, but we decided we had better take Fay’s uncle for moral support, and as a translator if the conversation transcended her ability to follow.
The next day, at about 1:30 p.m., we left for the police station. It was hot; the room we were to meet in was open to the courtyard, and there was, naturally, no air conditioning. There was a rickety, noisy old fan on a table. Another complaint was being processed, with much shouting, and another poor, put-upon constable trying to keep the peace and be fair to all the parties. There was a police woman beside him, although as far as I could see, her main purpose seemed to be to keep the male constable in good spirits.
At about 2:10, the complainant showed up; he had brought a small portfolio with him. He seemed to be sitting rather smugly across from us. Finally, at 2:30, the previous complaint was somehow resolved, and we were called to the desk. The constable was a young man; he looked nice. I think that under any other circumstances, and without the language barrier, we would have gotten along quite well; as it was, he did set me at ease. We sat opposite him: Fay’s uncle on the extreme left, then Fay, me, and finally the driver. The driver and Fay initiated proceedings by trying to out-vocalize each other in explaining to the officer what had happened. Every few minutes, his cellular phone would ring. He would pick it up, scowl, silence it, and put it down again. The third time it happened, he picked it up, muted it, and turned to the policewoman beside him. A long string of Sinhala followed; the only two words I understood were universally understood by married men: “wife” and “scold.” His body language and expression didn’t really betray any acrimony; he seemed to be in a rather good mood, all things considered. I couldn’t help smiling. He noticed this, and asked (still in Sinhala) if I spoke the language. I shook my head, vehemently. They went back to arguing about the complaint against us.
The driver had brought evidence of his good character in his portfolio: a clipping from a newspaper about an incident in which he tracked down a Westerner who had left his wallet in the three-wheeler. Great, good for him. But I think that there is a huge difference between a thief and a con; this fellow is clearly not a thief, but also not averse to nickel-and-diming someone he thinks won’t fight back. He may have picked the wrong battle this time.
He may even have been a decent guy, most of the time, but what does it say about someone that he is willing to give up an hour on the streets collecting fares over a matter of a dollar? This seems to demonstrates an extreme of pettiness in wanting to punish us by our time.
The policeman was unimpressed. Very unimpressed. I found out later that he told the fellow off mercilessly, indicating that this kind of behaviour reflects very poorly on a country which benefited so greatly from the Western world after the 2004 tsunami, and embarrasses everyone. Trying to be fair, he also told Fay she should be a little more flexible when she comes to such a poor country. Eventually, the driver admitted that one reason he made the complaint against us was that Fay had scolded him so meanly. Her uncle jumped immediately to her defence, stating that he had known Fay all her life, since she was a little girl, and had never known her to behave like that.
The policeman wrote it all down, and had both Fay and the driver sign his ledger. Finally, our constable offered to have Fay pay the driver the original Rs 150. He declined, perhaps holding out for the extra dollar. No such luck; he was told in no uncertain terms that in that case, his business was done.
We left on good terms with the officer, thanking him for his time and shaking his hand. All-in-all, it is mortifying to think how much of his time this silly driver wasted in lodging the complaint against us.
All I wanted at Odel was a T-shirt, but it is difficult to get out of there in less then a few hours. First, we got fruit juices, then there was jewelry to be checked out, then clothing – lots of clothing. I looked over the selection of food, and the books (I read a little of a book called A Cause Untrue, by David Blacker – I found it quite compelling, and find myself rather sorry I didn’t purchase it), and the music, and found the T-shirt I wanted. Then I waited. Finally, Fay and her cousin came, and we went to the DeliFrance on the ground floor for coffee and pastries. Then, ice cream from Il Gelato, followed by buying a kilogram of various flavours of gelato to take home. I was sceptical about the ice cream making it through the twenty minute drive back in the tropical heat, but they have clearly done this before.
It was time to go home. Fay’s cousin and I stayed back while Fay negotiated the the trip back home. Primarily foreigners and rich Sri Lankans shop at Odel, and it can be difficult to get a fair deal, but the third driver she spoke to agreed to do it for Rs 150. Fay summoned her cousin and me, and we got in. The trip was uneventful, although it is invariably necessary to give further directions when we get close by – the house is off on a small side street which can be very hard to find.
We arrived, and her cousin and I stepped out. The next thing I knew, things seemed to be getting rather heated between Fay and our driver. It transpired that he had decided to unilaterally increase the fare by Rs 100. It transpired equally that Fay had no intention of giving him one Sri Lankan cent more than the previously agreed upon price. I confess that, not speaking Sinhala, I have no idea of what was actually said, but he had apparently threatened to go to the police if we did not pay the additional Rs 100. She offered him the originally negotiated fare; but he refused and left.
A few hours later, a rather put-upon-looking officer of the local constabulary arrived by bicycle. He listened to Fay and her aunt as they described the situation, but he wasn’t here to resolve things; his errand was merely to inform us that we had been summoned to the local police station in Welawetta at two the following afternoon. This was a matter of some concern, as our return flight to Toronto was scheduled for Wednesday. It seemed unlikely that anyone would interfere with our travel plans over a matter of Rs 100 (about $Cdn 1.08), but you never know. It didn’t seem like a matter worth trying to bribe our way out of, but we decided we had better take Fay’s uncle for moral support, and as a translator if the conversation transcended her ability to follow.
The next day, at about 1:30 p.m., we left for the police station. It was hot; the room we were to meet in was open to the courtyard, and there was, naturally, no air conditioning. There was a rickety, noisy old fan on a table. Another complaint was being processed, with much shouting, and another poor, put-upon constable trying to keep the peace and be fair to all the parties. There was a police woman beside him, although as far as I could see, her main purpose seemed to be to keep the male constable in good spirits.
At about 2:10, the complainant showed up; he had brought a small portfolio with him. He seemed to be sitting rather smugly across from us. Finally, at 2:30, the previous complaint was somehow resolved, and we were called to the desk. The constable was a young man; he looked nice. I think that under any other circumstances, and without the language barrier, we would have gotten along quite well; as it was, he did set me at ease. We sat opposite him: Fay’s uncle on the extreme left, then Fay, me, and finally the driver. The driver and Fay initiated proceedings by trying to out-vocalize each other in explaining to the officer what had happened. Every few minutes, his cellular phone would ring. He would pick it up, scowl, silence it, and put it down again. The third time it happened, he picked it up, muted it, and turned to the policewoman beside him. A long string of Sinhala followed; the only two words I understood were universally understood by married men: “wife” and “scold.” His body language and expression didn’t really betray any acrimony; he seemed to be in a rather good mood, all things considered. I couldn’t help smiling. He noticed this, and asked (still in Sinhala) if I spoke the language. I shook my head, vehemently. They went back to arguing about the complaint against us.
The driver had brought evidence of his good character in his portfolio: a clipping from a newspaper about an incident in which he tracked down a Westerner who had left his wallet in the three-wheeler. Great, good for him. But I think that there is a huge difference between a thief and a con; this fellow is clearly not a thief, but also not averse to nickel-and-diming someone he thinks won’t fight back. He may have picked the wrong battle this time.
He may even have been a decent guy, most of the time, but what does it say about someone that he is willing to give up an hour on the streets collecting fares over a matter of a dollar? This seems to demonstrates an extreme of pettiness in wanting to punish us by our time.
The policeman was unimpressed. Very unimpressed. I found out later that he told the fellow off mercilessly, indicating that this kind of behaviour reflects very poorly on a country which benefited so greatly from the Western world after the 2004 tsunami, and embarrasses everyone. Trying to be fair, he also told Fay she should be a little more flexible when she comes to such a poor country. Eventually, the driver admitted that one reason he made the complaint against us was that Fay had scolded him so meanly. Her uncle jumped immediately to her defence, stating that he had known Fay all her life, since she was a little girl, and had never known her to behave like that.
The policeman wrote it all down, and had both Fay and the driver sign his ledger. Finally, our constable offered to have Fay pay the driver the original Rs 150. He declined, perhaps holding out for the extra dollar. No such luck; he was told in no uncertain terms that in that case, his business was done.
We left on good terms with the officer, thanking him for his time and shaking his hand. All-in-all, it is mortifying to think how much of his time this silly driver wasted in lodging the complaint against us.
posted by James McLeod at
6:04 PM
|
0 comments
