Road Rage Chronicles: "God bless you, brother!"

© Netflix

I grew up in New York City in pre-Uber times, and I talk to taxi drivers. In New York, taxi drivers (I almost never Uber in New York – or Tokyo – because ... why???) come from all over the world, but mostly from West Africa and South Asia (and older drivers often come from the Caribbean, especially Haiti). With (some of) the West Africans (and with the Haitians) I get a chance to practice my French, with the Brazilians, my Portuguese, and with the South Asians I can talk about their countries with the knowledge and appreciation of someone who has been to that part of the world many times.

Last year, unusually, I rode with an old school white guy, a real Noo Yawker, with the accent, and his conversation was so nuts that I Googled his name off his license (in case you don’t know, they’re supposed to be posted – but often are not – so passengers can see them) and learned that years ago he had been arrested and had his license suspended for throwing hot coffee on a meter maid (traffic enforcement officer). You think you’re givin’ me a ticket? Fuhgeddaboudit!

Also, last year, I had a driver who was from Tibet! How many Tibetan New York City taxi drivers can there be???

I talk to taxi drivers because I'm interested in people, I'm interested in their stories. The composer Philip Glass worked as a New York City cab driver, and so did Larry David. Actor Danny Glover worked as a cabbie in San Francisco and playwright David Mamet drove a cab in Chicago.

In Singapore, many of the taxi drivers I meet are retired from other professions, driving to fill their days (and because they enjoy meeting and talking to people), and for the most part they are well-informed and interesting (though I have certainly had my share of deaf and blind – and worse, pro-Trump! – taxi drivers as well!).

Outside of the cities in which “regular” taxicabs are easy to find, of course I use Uber and Lyft and Grab.

Last year at Chinese New Year, I caught an Uber from Manhattan to JFK airport, and had a great conversation with my driver, an immigrant from China’s Guangdong province. He told me that when he first arrived in the United States he had worked in a restaurant near Tampa, Florida because “no English.”

Twenty years later, he still spoke English with a strong Chinese accent, and I was surprised when he told me he was a naturalized U.S. citizen. I was surprised also that he lived alone, was unmarried, and professed to be a good cook. Several of my stereotypes about working-class male Chinese immigrants busted at once!

I said, “So how are you going to celebrate Chinese New Year?”

He laughed and said, “Go out to dinner! Like all Chinese!”

Also last year, I spent some time in South Africa, where I didn’t bother renting a car but instead used Uber whenever I needed to travel farther than I could walk or run.

Uber is the dominant ride share service in South Africa, and every driver I rode with was an immigrant from Zimbabwe. During my two months there, I learned as much about Zimbabwe as I did about South Africa.

If you travel, you know that in some countries you ride in back, in some countries you ride up front. South Africa is a ride-up-front country, which I find makes it even easier to talk with drivers.

My drivers talked about ‘Mad Bob’ Mugabe (for most of them, he was the reason they were in South Africa), Zimbabwean pop music (I learned who Thomas Mapfumo is, and liked his music), South African xenophobia, and their own immigrant dreams.

One ride stayed with me. Riding across the Cape Peninsula to meet a friend for dinner, my young driver and I were on the highway, having a talk about … something … when another driver cut in front of us. My driver raised his hand in a wave and exclaimed, “God bless you, brother!”

In New York we handle it differently, but I thought that was the Best. Response. Ever.

Since then, I have told the story to several dozen taxi and ride share drivers, plus a few friends, and everyone loves it.

In fact, a few months ago I was riding with a somewhat road rage-prone friend here in Singapore, and after she was cut off and reacted as a New Yorker might have (she’s not a New Yorker, but when she’s behind the wheel of a car she can fake it), I told her the story.

A few minutes later, she was cut off again, and raised her hand in a wave and said, “God bless you, brother!”

Amen, sister!