42: It’s Not Fare.

Jakarta Bound is a travelogue about life in one of the largest and most densely populated cities in South East Asia.

*****

As we came down Dan Mogot toward Centro City apartments the driver’s taxi meter was still rolling forward and was now reading well over 100,000. This was practically double what it should have been. I didn’t want to pay him any more than 50,000 for his dodgy detour, but since Simon had given me a 100,000 note to cover the taxi, I wasn’t too concerned. That was until I looked at the note in my hand and realised it was only a 50,000. And since I had spent most of my money it was pretty much all I had left at that point. As the driver pulled up at the footbridge on the opposite side of the slip road leading to my apartment block, I told him that I was only going to give him 50,000 and handed him the note. He looked at it with bemusement, then looked at me and pointed to his meter. I had given up on trying to communicate with the man in Bahasa by that time, I was just too tired, so I shook my head and told him he had gone the wrong way and I was only giving him the fifty. Despite the length of time he had spent with Simon and I in his taxi, his English had not improved and he still had no idea what I was saying. However, I could see that he clearly wasn’t happy with the 50,000 IDR I was offering and wanted the amount that was on his meter.

I had been here before; taxi driver thinks you don’t know where you’re going, takes you on a long detour accidentally on purpose, acts dumb and then insists that you pay him anyway. It seems to be inherent to the profession all around the world. So, to satisfactorily end my night on a downer, the taxi driver decides he’s going take me to “Polisi”.

‘Go on then’ was my first thought as he started to drive off down the road, ‘I’m in the right and he’s in the wrong’. Then I had second thoughts and decided that I really did not want to be negotiating Indonesian police in the early hours of the morning stinking of alcohol. But I didn’t want to be jumping out of a moving car either. So it was my turn to go on the turn, only I think it’s fair to say that my turn was a lot nastier than Simon’s.

The driver had got maybe a few hundred metres up the road before he decided it was probably wise to stop his cab. Whilst he certainly didn’t understand what the enraged Bule in the back of his car was shouting at him, he knew they were strong words and a lot of them were probably obscene. It was also pretty clear to him that the furious finger pointing, bulging veins and look of rage on the man’s face were good reasons for him to concede and release the man from his car.

I didn’t feel proud of bullying the taxi driver, but there are times when being nice and trusting that the right thing will be done is just the wrong thing to do. That tricky little bastard knew what he was doing when he drove us in circles around south Jakarta for half an hour. He had played his hand and he lost. I still gave him the 50,000 though, so he should have been grateful that he got any money at all.

As I briskly walked back to my apartment, mindful of the massive pothole on the corner of the road but eager to get to my bed, I couldn’t help but have a little laugh to myself. The last hour had been a little bit crazy and unexpected, but I had got home safely. Ok, I was going home to an empty bed and I was now more or less sober, but at least I wasn’t sat in a polisi station trying to convince an Indonesian police officer with a gun and limited English that I hadn’t cheated one of his fellow countrymen.

As I turned into the Grand Prix Inn and walked past the barrier at the checkpoint I was still smiling to myself. I passed the security guard that sat outside the entrance to the apartment block and greeted him with a ‘good morning’ – “Selamat pagi”. He smiled and nodded back at me. I think the smile was because this was third or fourth time he had seen me get home in the early hours of the morning in the last two weeks.

As sober as I might have thought I was after getting out of the taxi, the room still swirled me to sleep that night. But it was sound sleep. I had forgotten about the drunken girl Simon had picked up. I had forgotten about threatening the taxi driver. I had had fun and I was now safely in my bed. Nothing else could go wrong, for now at least.

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3 thoughts on “42: It’s Not Fare.

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