The Night We Almost Died

I�ve never driven a cab�or any motorized vehicle, for that matter�so I never got to deeply understand what compelled the drivers of the first four taxicabs we had hailed that evening to refuse letting us into their cabs other than because our destination wasn�t a place of their preference.

Luckily we managed to get in the fifth cab, and more luckily still, got the driver to start driving us to our destination. This, however, wouldn�t have been possible had we not applied some strategy.

Getting in, we had ignored the driver�s inquiry on where we were headed, displaying only a broad, sheepish grin. We had locked the door, implying we had no intentions whatsoever of stepping out, the grin on our faces even broader than before. It had taken him nine where to�s until he finally succumed and started driving.

�Ibab� p� niny� ang metro niny�,� we reminded him not two feet into our journey. He cursed passionately in Filipino, but having no real choice, lest we squealed him to the authorities and his taxicab operating license be revoked, started his meter running.

(Actually, refusing passengers is also illegal, but we were still in a good mood during our first four rejections. We didn�t list down the license plate numbers of those taxicabs like we were supposed to, only left the rear right passenger door wide open and ran a few meters away just in case.)

Being in a conversational mood, we let our driver in on where we wanted him to drive us. To Gate 1 of the university we requested him to park. It was only a block away from where we had got our ride, so naturally he was furious because that short a ride would gain him only a very small fare collection.

�Not to worry, buddy boy,� we told him, attempting to lift his spirit, �for this is but the first leg of our journey.�

In Gate 1 of the university waited our third companion Bemm along with our equipment.

I stepped out of the cab as soon as it stopped, to help loading the equipment. Anselmo, on the other hand, stayed inside so the driver couldn�t go away in case he was thinking of escaping. He even double checked his seatbelt�s fit for emphasis.

Our stuff wasn�t that much. We�d only brought for the workshop the six footer baffles instead of the twelve, and of the four of them, we�d brought only two. The television also wasn�t that large, and that it was heavy was only because it was one of those old, bulky models.

The driver complained, but as before we met him with grinning faces.

�Please open the trunk,� we demanded. Approximately five seconds after giving us the finger, the driver was pushing the button that would unlock the rear compartment of his car. There Bemm and I placed the baffles, making sure they were securely fastened. The television we brought to the back seat with us.

�Go, Mr. Driver,� we said after everything was ready. �Back to the UVLO Knolls we go before the sun sets!�

�To the UVLO Knolls?� he asked, barely able to hide the fright that had suddenly crept into his heart.

�To the UVLO Knolls,� we repeated.

That night we almost died.

Apparently, Metro Manila streets were no more perilous than the UVLO Knolls that everybody feared.

Twenty minutes into the ride (more than half of which was spent stalled in second rush hour traffic) and 97 pesos into the taxi fare meter, our highly skilled driver made a sudden turn to one of the narrower side streets. It would, according to him, lead us to the main highway just the same, minus the traffic we would have to endure if we�d use the usual route.

We objected loudly, holding the suspicion that this was just one of his schemes to extract as much fare from us as possible, but he must have learned so much from us in our ride so far, that he ignored us by displaying only his set of charred and nicotine deposited teeth.

We went silent when we saw for ourselves the brilliance of our driver�s choice of detour. Though the street was no more broader than would allow a two-lane traffic, it was open as far as the eye could see. The only obstructions were a number of private cars parked in front houses whose owners were too cheap to have a garage.

In fact, it was with one of these parked cars that our cab almost had a colission. It just happened that the parked car�s owner was there, and no sooner had our driver applied the brakes had he been barking curses and threats to the cab�s windshield.

It would have gone out fine. The driver could have just ignored him and drove straight on, and we could all have arrived at our destination fine, and without having to pay that much for cab fare.

But I guess there simply are words one person should never, even in the heat of the fiercest argument, say to another if he values the importance of staying alive. Or in our case, if one values one�s freedom enough not to commit homicide.

Somewhere in the angry man�s bellowing of angry words, he mentioned something against the very popular Mongolian boy band of the time, B4.

Our cab screeched to a halt. Steam seemed to suddenly come out of our driver�s ears�but this we didn�t have very much time to observe, because only at this time did we notice, and had time to marvel, that taped onto our hired cab�s windows were posters of the just mentioned Mongolian boy band.

It was clear to see that our driver was offended. It was only a question of how far he would go to make the man on the street take back what he had said about his favorite group.

He stepped out of the car. He cursed in the National Language, then said something to the effect of, �What did I hear you say about B4!?!�

The man on the street repeated what he had said, only this time, slower and a whole lot clearer, relishing every syllable of it.

Our driver was so fuming with fury, he couldn�t even construct a sentence. After five seconds of trying, he gave up and gave the man a shove to the chest.

That wasn�t a very smart thing to do.

Our driver was somewhere between 5�4� or 5�5�, not muscular at all, and looked as though he had a history, especially during early childhood, of passing out in the classroom for no apparent reason.

The owner of the car he had nearly scratched, on the other hand, had the build of a basketball player. He must be 6� flat or a little taller than that. He had a shaved head, but grew a sinister dark black goatee. He had powerful arms that could have lifted each of the two baffles we had on the cab�s compartment if he wished to. Most important of all, something that looked very much like the handle of a gun was sticking out of his waist.

And a gun, indeed it was! Recovering from our driver�s shove, he didn�t give anything as gentlemanly as a sock in the jaw, or even a proper retaliatory shove. His gun was out in a motion swifter than any dance move by all the members of B4 in a music video. It was cocked and pointed directly and steadily at our cab driver�s forehead.

It was the man�s turn to cuss. �Shithead! Do you know who you�re f***ing with?�

Whatever fanatical rage that had driven our cabby to defend the honor of his favorite Mongolian boy band, it left him as soon as he realized a bullet could be entering his head any moment and doing permanent damage to his temporal lobe. He froze on the spot and began to slightly quiver. With arms extended, he tried to reason with his soon-to-be killer. He didn�t mean to give him a shove. He didn�t mean any offense with whatever abusive sounding words that might have been heard earlier coming out of his mouth. Did his cab scratch the parked car in any way? He could shoulder the repair expenses if only the man with the gun would ask. He surely would, especially if the weapon would be lowered, or at least pointed somewhere else.

�Somewhere else�� At the mention of this phrase, the man with the gun turned his attention to the taxi cab parked next to his car.

It was not all that easy to miss, the cab Bemm, Anselmo, and I were on, espcially that the engine was still running. Even the taxi meter was still on. It was a shock to realize that our B4 fan of a driver, before stepping out of the cab to have a little game with his fate, hadn�t even bothered stopping it, or doing whatever it is taxi drivers do so no additional fare gets charged to their passengers. He was earning money even as he faced his mortality.

Now that I think about it, I never even got to understand why any cab driver would do such a thing like that�I�ve never driven a cab, afterall.

� Jay Santos 2003.