Wherever I go I have to deal with the curse of the taxi driver. To drive a taxi in most jurisdictions seems to require that you don’t speak the language of the country, failed your driving test and keep up an endless barrage of suggestions to take your passengers somewhere else then they want to go. The one that took me to Don Muang airport in Bangkok this afternoon was no exception. He was a card carrying member of the tourist taxi Mafia and I am sure his car did double duty as a dodgem. After agreeing on a way to high fee to take me to the airport he immediately advised me that I what I really wanted was a visit to a massage parlor. He proceeded to hand me a full color brochure of a house of ill repute. I had seen this particular leaflet before as most taxi drivers seem to have it on them, it has a center fold picture of a gentleman flanked by two very good looking Thai ladies in a bubble bath. And although obscured by plenty of bubbles it leaves little doubt as to what the ladies are holding on too. The chap on the picture is smiling and so would I be if this bloody taxi driver would keep his eyes on the road. We swerve from lane to lane and at one stage travel on the wrong side of a median barrier.

“Good overtaking” he says, I am wondering if he’s on drugs.

“We stop at my friend shop?”

“No we got to the airport”

“You go jiggy, jiggy, massage parlor?” he points at some girls on the sidewalk. They look about twelve.

“No we got to the airport!”

We get almost side swiped by a truck, veer into another lane and the engine cuts out for about the fifth time. Just as the car behind us is ready to slam into us the engine fires up again and we hurtle onto the motorway. After another ten minutes or so of crazy maneuvers and hair raising overtaking we stop in front of terminal two.

“Have a good flight”


I certainly hope it’s less eventful then my taxi ride.

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