Baiyo

One night, I was listening to one of my favourite CDs by Seckou Keita. For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure, Seckou Keita is an award-winning Senegalese virtuoso of the kora and djembe.  (And if you haven’t yet had the pleasure, look up his music online!)  I play these wonderful world music CDs for two specific types of passenger: the cultured, and the highly intoxicated / potentially volatile.

The former have generally enjoyed an evening of refined revelry, and the beauty of the music enchants their appreciative ears.  A rich and stimulating discussion typically ensues, or we just savour the magic in companionable silence.   As for the latter, well, the music is simply perfect for pacifying drunks.  Many a belligerent sot has been melodically soothed into a blissful stupor, allowing  the rising tension in the taxi to dissipate, and, at the conclusion of the journey, they simply pay and melt out of the car, all antagonism forgotten.

I digress.  I was listening to one of Seckou’s CDs named “Mali”, while discussing the delights of Indian food with an inebriated (but agreeable) passenger.  The passenger slurred, “I see you’re into Indian music, too”.  I was bemused until he pointed at the CD player screen, which listed the track “Baiyo”. He was so pissed, he thought it said “Bhaji”.

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The Origin of the Sensual Taxi

Three men got in my taxi. They were delighted to have a female taxi driver, and were exceedingly complimentary. Apparently, my cab smelled lovely, I, too, was both lovely and friendly, and they liked my driving style. According to one, I was “really hot” and had a very sexy voice.

“You’ve clearly been drinking tonight,” I observed.

Actually, no, he was the only one who hadn’t. And then followed one of the most bizarre comments that I have heard in my cab to date:

“Wow, this is such a sensual* taxi!”

???!!

As a result of the amusement generated by this remark, I have succumbed to popular opinion, and the Sensual Taxi blog has begun. Please enjoy 🙂

(* In actual fact, the customer used the word “sexual” rather than “sensual”, to describe my taxi.

HOWEVER, I have no intention of having the blog title, “Tales from a Sexual Taxi.” Yes, that title might garner considerably more hits for my blog, but not necessarily the kind of traffic (no pun intended) that I would welcome. In the interests of perv-dodging, which is an essential part of the skill set for us female cabbies, the Sensual Taxi prevails.)

Chronic

I picked up four students, three girls and a boy, at the end of their alcohol-fuelled night out. Their accents reeked of childhood gymkhanas and croquet lawns.

They were debating their imminent sleeping arrangements at the ear-splitting volume of people who haven’t yet adjusted their voices to the fact that they are no longer in a club. Such voices have an exceedingly short life-span in my cab

One girl, sitting behind me, was delighted to discover that I was a female taxi driver. Apparently, I had made her night.

“You’ve had a pretty crap night, then,” I remarked, smiling.

We broke into conversational groups. I chatted with the lovely girl next to me, whom I recognised from a previous journey. The girl behind me was determined to try to dominate the conversation. Suddenly she shrieked, “ANAL SEX?!!! That’s DISGUSTING!”

The girl next to me froze in her seat, as horrified as her friend, but for entirely different reasons.

“I think that’s a conversation that we should continue at home,” she said hastily, staring fixedly ahead.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” I offered. “I’ve heard worse.”

(In actual fact, earlier in the evening, I had a frank discussion about a variety of types of adult work with a lap-dancer, whom I was taking to her workplace. As she got out of my cab, she remarked,

“That was a lovely journey. I wish more people were as open-minded as you!”)

Back to the students. While the other two girls cringed in their seats, and the lad regretted starting the conversation in my presence, the loud girl continued with a succinct explanation of exactly why she thought anal sex was disgusting.

It transpired that her primary concerns revolved around both the logistics and the hygienic feasibility. Her upbringing might have been refined, but her choice of vocabulary was not.

The boy was insistent that these potential hazards could be overcome.

“It’s like, if the girl had a poo, like six hours before, it would probably be ok,” he insisted. “Or, she could have a chronic irrigation.”

As I fought to maintain my composure, my hand flew to my mouth, in an effort to stifle my mirth. They mistook this for revulsion, and apologised profusely and sincerely as they left.

Ah, students. The gift that just keeps on giving.