The World’s Worst Cab Driver

His card read Executive Taxi Service.

“Porque taxi executivo?” I asked Victor as he shuttled us down the mountain in his 1978 Toyota to a hotel near the Simon Bolivar Airport. A yellowed air freshener in the likeness of Christ draped from the rear view mirror.

He smiled, grabbed his tie and held it out toward me.

“Executivo,” he explained with a forced grin.

“Great, Kurt,” I joked to my brother. “You picked a cab driver who charges a premium because he sports an ugly tie.”

We agreed on $5 as the price to the hotel. The ride lasted 20 minutes from Caracas. Dumping our bags, we told him we needed another ride to the airport five minutes away. He said he’d do it for $10, knowing cabs stayed clear of the dicey area that time of night. Victor was bad, but he wasn’t the worst.

We met Abdullah after a taxi dictator at the one-room airport in Bima, Indonesia refused to let us share a ride into town with the two other tourists on our plane. He had an old white van on its last legs with a cheap stereo that blared tinny Indonesian tunes. His driving style was fully up to island standards, sometimes paying attention to traffic signs, sometimes giving way to other drivers, sometimes keeping his head fixed forward. He brought one wife the first day, a second the next, then asked for a double tip to “feed both families.” He was bad, but he wasn’t the worst.

Haggling is mandatory for decent cab fares, especially outside Western Europe. Lessons learned: Find the going rate, aim for half price, and then always agree to a fare before entering the car. Prices are lower at the end of cab lines than at the beginning and lower still if you walk 50 yards from the official pick-up stations. Refuse offers for “free” stops at jewelry outlets, tailors or souvenir shops unless you want help your driver make a little money on the side.

We’ve had many overpriced rides, lost routes and poor drivers. In Russia, every car is a potential cab, in Vietnam every scooter. The taxis are a heap in Siem Reap, far from the best in Budapest and frequently full in Istanbul.

But if you’re looking for the world’s worst cab driver, touch your finger to a spinning globe and the world will come to a halt on the island of Trinidad.

St. James is the Port of Spain neighborhood where locals point tourists for “nightlife.” Smokeys Bar serves cold Carib beers through wire enclosures. No Credit signs hang on each wall. Jerk Chicken stands dot the sidewalks. A supermarket up the street advertises “Adult Diapers $1” on a large wooden sign. St. James is the neighborhood of Douglas, the world’s worst cab driver.

Kurt and I were desperately and hopelessly trying to find a redeeming side to Port of Spain. Concluding there was none, we asked a St. James travel agent for the name of a driver to take us to the beach the following morning. Tony laughed at us, saying all the cars and drivers were long taken due to Carnival.

Mid outburst, a man walked into the agency and handed Tony a card. “You guys are in luck,” he said, surprised. “Here’s the name of a driver named Douglas. Give him a call.” We jumped on it.

“Doe-Glass,” I could hear through the receiver from across the room. Kurt explained we wanted to go to the beach, and then gave instructions to meet at our guesthouse/Christian rehab center at 11:00 a.m.

“I hope he’s there,” Kurt said after hanging up. “I didn’t understand a word he said.” Dressed, backpacks loaded, ready to go the next morning, no Douglas. We waited a half-hour then gave him a call.

“Oh yah mon,” he said as if we reminded him it was his birthday. “I be dare soon. Jus need to make waaan stop.” Kurt went back to bed. I settled into my book.

Noon, then 12:30 p.m., still no Douglas. We called a few other taxi companies who told us they were fully booked, so we began making other plans.

At 1:00 p.m., a rusted orange Nissan with missing hubcaps and numerous dents rambled into our driveway. A chubby, 30-something man with Indian features and a splotchy black beard rang the bell. He smelled like the previous night’s fete.

“Douglas,” I said. “We missed you. We were so lonely.”

“It’s $30,” Douglas answered in suddenly understandable English after Kurt probed him on the price. We groaned and told him much shorter rides were $20 at most. He relented with a sheepish grin.

“We need to make a quick stop at the Brazilian Embassy,” I said, handing him a map marked with the embassy’s location five blocks away. We could have walked.

“No prah-blem,” he sang.

Large holes spotted the back dash. A makeshift cloth ceiling draped down, resting on our heads. Knees bent to chins, arms around each other, we barely fit into the car. Two minutes outside the guesthouse, Kurt looked at the gas gauge and saw the car was below empty.

“Don’t you need some gas?” he inquired.

“Ooooh yah,” he said, nodding his head. Did either of us have any money, he asked. Kurt grumbled and gave him a few bucks.

Starting out again, Douglas waved to several people on opposite sides of the street. His eyes darted back and forth like a front row seat at a tennis match, scanning for any activity other that what took place on the road.

He stopped and asked someone for directions. The conversation quickly shifted from streets to the street parties that took place the night before. After a tap on the shoulder and a couple “let’s go” calls from the back seat, Douglas ended the chat and turned the old Datsun onto a one-way street heading out of town.

“Uhh, Douglas,” I mentioned. “You’re, umm, going the wrong way. It’s just a couple blocks over there.”

“Ohh-kay mon,” he replied, then spun his car 180 degrees to avoid a few oncoming cars.

We directed him the rest of the way, convinced him to wait while we picked up a Visa application at the Brazilian Embassy, then pointed him on the proper road to the beach. He kept his head out the window to shout greetings to an endless stream of friends.

“This guy knows someone on every street, yet doesn’t know the streets,” I opined. “Amazing.”

During the half-hour ride to the beach, Douglas pontificated on the must-see and do highlights of Carnival. We laughed hard from the back seat, partly at the stories but mostly because we could only decipher about one of every five words. Leaning toward him, Kurt tried in vain to play interpreter.

“Any waahn whaaant a beer?” he asked when we reached the beach. He asked for money again, but promised it would be an advance on the $20 fare.

“Maybe the beer will help his navigation skills,” I rationalized. “Douglas, we’ll see you here at 5:00 p.m.” Or 6:00, 7:00 or 9:00, we thought.

We were so fascinated with the Douglas experience, we wound up calling him several times, doing so more for amusement than for transportation. Having no place to go and no deadline to get there, we sat back and enjoyed the rides.

They went something like this. Arriving late, Douglas would ask a ridiculously high price. We’d laugh in unison, then cut the price to something more reasonable. Journeys were accompanied by personal errands “to geeeve a mess-ahge to a freeend.” Questions about local landmarks or event schedules drew blank stares, then diatribes about obscure Caribbean subjects in his unintelligible pigeon English.

“You’re never going to believe this,” Kurt announced late on the one day we didn’t need him. “Douglas called to say hi and to see if we wanted to do anything.”

“Douglas, you are the world’s worst cab driver,” I finally told him. He grinned and mumbled something about being “proud to hold de tie-tall.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s not hyperbole. We’ve been in 32 countries so far and used many, many cab drivers. You are, hands down, the worst cab driver in the world.”

He laughed harder, and then suddenly pulled the car into a friend’s driveway. “Jus waaahn mee-nut, mon.”

We wanted to say a proper good-bye to Douglas. Unfortunately he never showed up to take us to the airport. He sent his brother instead, who explained Douglas had partied all night and was still too drunk to drive. Douglas instructed his brother to ask for our addresses in case he ever chose to visit the United States.

I hope he does. My house is open. I just won’t have him drive.