This past week we read of some journalists from Hurriyet Daily News going undercover, disguised as tourists, to shine a spotlight on Istanbul’s notoriously dishonest taxi drivers. Reading the story, and discussing it with my Turkish colleagues, we shared some of our own horror stories, or ones we had heard about. I came away with a thought. Certainly not all Istanbul taxi drivers are as bad as this, right? They don’t all cheat their customers.
No – not all, to be fair.
But some are just plain assholes.
Like that time I decided to take a taxi from the shopping mall at Ayrılık Çesmesi to our apartment in Koşuyolu. There were plenty of minibuses, and the trip is only about five minutes. But I’d had a long day at work, and just wanted to get home. I managed to get a taxi driver to agree to take me there.
It was during Ramazan, I should add, and a hot summer day. We’d no sooner disembarked from the curb when the obviously fasting driver began shouting furiously at every passing car. I wouldn’t have had any problem with this, except for the fact that we were approaching the turn-off to the highway – the opposite direction of the Koşuyolu exit.
“Sol, sol!” I said, politely but urgently.
The driver spun around in his seat and began directing his curses at me. He continued cursing as he grudgingly maneuvered into the left lane and took the Koşuyolu exit. We passed under the overpass and arrived at the traffic light.
“Sol,” I said again, indicating we needed to turn left at the light and go up the hill.
The driver began cursing and shouting again (actually he hadn’t stopped, it was just a continuous Turkish blue streak).
By the time we arrived at the top of the hill, I just snapped. I was fed up. As I say, it had been a long day. OK, the guy was fasting. So it was Ramazan. So he was thirsty and hungry. Why was that my problem? How hard was it for him to just shut up and drive, or else turn the radio on?
“I am a customer!” I said, in my bad Turkish. “You are a driver. This is your job!”
As you might expect, he just shouted all the more, louder.
“Fuck off!” I shouted back finally, resigned.
The driver turned, stunned. He understood the word “fuck” obviously.
“Fuck? No! I fuck you! I fuck you! I fuck you! I fuck you! I fuck you! I fuck you! –“
It was like a machine gun loaded with “fuck yous” had gone off.
I ordered him to stop the vehicle. Getting out, I slammed the door and marched off. It occurred to me to pay, but then I thought, no! Fuck him! I waved the 10-lira note at him, then shook my head and kept walking. Why would I pay to be insulted?
The furious fasting driver, cursing louder than ever, immediately jumped out of the taxi in pursuit. His eyes were wild with fury. For a guy who’d been fasting all day, he sure had a lot of energy all of a sudden.
It was all happening very fast now.
What to do? Was I going to get into a fistfight with a taxi driver? Would he go Travis Bickle on my yabancı ass?
Nearby stood a mosque. It was Friday and many people were going in for prayers. On a desperate impulse, I walked nervously through the entrance. All the shoes were there, so I hurriedly took mine off and went in. It was quiet, and the devout were all doubled over in prayer position.
Nobody seemed to notice me, so I just sort of found a spot and joined in for a while. A few minutes passed.
I rose and went to the entrance and peered out. The taxi was not in sight. I put on my shoes and went out. A blue minibüs was approaching, so I waved it down and got on, handing over two liras to the driver. Our apartment was a fairly short distance. At the Starbucks traffic light, I got out and looked around. I walked to our gate, and went inside. Home free!
Guess I lost him, or else he figured the 10 lira was not worth disturbing Friday prayers. Who knows? Maybe he feared I would call the police. But what could I accuse him of? Driving under the influence of fasting?
Of course, you say that I was fortunate that the driver agreed to take me the short distance from the shopping mall to Koşuyolu. Actually, taxi drivers by law are required to take you, regardless of the distance.
But it was Ramazan, you say. I should have shown more empathy, more compassion. My empathy and compassion have limits, folks. They usually end when someone begins shouting and swearing at me.
Why did you stiff the guy, James? Do you know how much a taxi driver in Istanbul makes?
Well, you know how many times I have been overcharged? How many times drivers said, “I can’t go that way. Too much traffic.” When I can see for myself that there isn’t any noticeable traffic. It all evens out, I say.
At any rate, I came out ahead on that particular occasion. Guess the Friday prayers saved me. So if you ever have an issue with an Istanbul taxi driver and you wish to tell him to go to hell, make sure there is a mosque nearby.
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James Tressler, a former California journalist, is the author of several Istanbul short story collections, including the recently published, “Strait Fiction.” He and his wife have recently relocated to Üsküdar, where they generally just use the ferries nowadays.
