Sometimes, whilst Dave is computing in Sarah’s air-conditioned flat, I like to go out exploring by myself. At the moment it’s too hot to walk more than a block, so I generally take a taxi. Whilst cabs here are cheap, when it comes to the standard of driver and driving, it’s definitely a case of you-get-what-you-pay-for.

One morning, after waiting for 15 minutes in the unbearable heat and humidity and waving my arms frantically at anything that looked remotely like a taxi, a cabbie picked me up. Thankful to be out of the heat I jumped in and greeted him. In broken English he returned my greeting and introduced himself as Ali from Pakistan, pointing at his ID badge so I could read his full name. It seemed that Ali was keen to talk and the conversation went something like this:

Ali: You have husband?
Me: Yes
Ali: Ah. You have beebies?
Me: No
Ali: Ah. You….(motions big belly)
Me: No, not pregnant (obviously I’d eaten too much at the Sheraton lunch that day)
Ali: Why no beebies? Problem?
Me: No, no problem
Ali: Husband a problem?
Me: No, husband very good.
Ali: Ah, very good. My madam finished. (FInsihed? Was he divorced or had he bumped off his wife, I wondered)

Pause

Ali: You give me mobile number
Me: I don’t have a mobile, I’m a visitor
Ali: You no number? You give me number

This went on for some time, until we arrived at my destination. I noted that the metre was at 3.50 DHS and took out a 5 DHS note to pay him. He pushed the note aside and took hold of my arm. ‘No, no’, he enthused, ‘no pay, we friends’, giving me a look that meant ‘you know what I mean’. I reclaimed my arm and pushed the note into his hands. ‘No thank you’, I said, firmly closing the car door. In a foreign city, you just never know what offers you’re going to get next. I just hope Dave isn’t going to trade me for a camel. Watch this space.