Wet

Kings Cross at 2:03am, Monday. This pretty much sums up the shift, wet and dreary.

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Champ

At Star City casino this morning a big, solid Islander fella opened my front door, adjusted the seat way back and hauled himself in. After he ordered a city hotel I picked him right away.

'Are you visiting Sydney?” I asked. “Yeah,” he replied, “just here with my band doing a few gigs.” Ah ha, the penny dropped. This was DJ Fitchie of Fat Freddy’s Drop, one of New Zealand’s top bands whose debut album is the second highest selling of all time. One imagines the title belongs to Split Enz or Crowded House.

Anyway, Fitchie told of a forthcoming first tour to America starting in California with a gig at the Roxy in LA and another at the Hermosa Beach festival. For my LA readers I really recommend this band for their feel good, laid back tunes and are well worth the effort.

Here’s a great video of FFD’s Pull the Catch featuring their eclectic mix of dub, reggae, soul and funk, plus some choice Kiwi cray fishing, eh. This is my passenger here on the video cover-frame at right and briefly around the 1:00 mark, or here at the 4:00 mark. The man is not only a gentle giant but also a solid tipper, causing me to farewell him with, “Thanks, champ.” He made my night.

Kiwi Extra: see how they party

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Overstayers

All last week a debate raged in many quarters over the stranded 250 Sri Lankan boat people, variously described as asylum seekers, illegal refugees, queue jumpers, economic refugees, emotional blackmailers, freedom fighters, etc.

One of the arguments used by those countering claims that the Rudd Government’s softened border policies have resulted in record numbers of boat people arriving was that, ‘anyway, more illegal immigrants arrive here by jumbo jet than those on boats’.

This is a reference to the overstayers who generally arrive on tourist visas and ‘forget’ to go home. Last week I carried one such forgetful, illegal, queue-jumping overstayer.

He boarded at Central station for the International Airport in order to catch a late night flight to Japan. All he carried was a grip and explained how he was going home for a family funeral, thence returning in three weeks. If he’s lucky, that is.

I quickly sized him up – young, Japanese, dyed hair, beachwear – and asked, “Are you a surfer?” “Yes,” he replied with a laugh. “Me like, very much.” “How long have you been in Australia?” “Three years, very beautiful.” “What about your visa?” I asked. Here he gave a long ‘mmmm...’ and laughed, “Maybe, no more.”

He presented as a pretty cool kid, actually, and was supporting himself by working at various jobs. The Sydney beachside hostel where he lived employed him for a few hours per week to cover food and board.

Otherwise he worked as a labourer for a local landscaper or a plumber and was paid in cash. This not only enabled him to survive but also to surf before and after work. 

Whilst he was casually relating this, like it was no big deal, I wondered how he had gotten away with it for three years. Clearly the locals liked the bloke and were happy to turn a blind eye, especially those employing him, probably due to the fact he was respectful, hard working and likeable.

Yet, regardless, overstayers are illegal immigrants and the kid should be chucked out.

Then I recalled old acquaintances in the same beachside community, a Japanese/Aussie couple with a son a few years younger than my passenger and also a mad surfer. Sure enough, he knew this boy from around the beach and so we made a real connection discussing this mutual relationship.

Arriving at the Airport I asked him, “So how are you going to get back into Australia?” With a conspiratorial smile he said, “I went to New Zealand once and came back in. Because I have enough money from working it’s okay.” He thanked me for the ride, tipped two dollars and hopped out.

Nup, I decided he’s a good kid. I ain't going to report him to Immigration.

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Blessed

Yesterday I gave a passenger a ten dollar discount, a cup of coffee and my phone number. In return I received a blessing from the Lord Shiva so tomorrow I’m buying a Lotto ticket!

He was waiting at a westerns suburbs hospital rank, laden with plastic bags and anxiously smoking. After checking if I’d go to the Eastern Suburbs he slowly loaded the bags into the back seat then squeezed in with them, all the while imploring me not move until belted and settled.

It didn’t take long to learn his story, though his strong accent means I can’t reproduce it here verbatim so instead I’ll paraphrase the tale. Let’s call him Sanjay.

Aged around forty Sanjay was from southern India and on his second stint in Australia. The first residency ended disastrously when his Indian wife and young son left him and moved to Canada.

The poor bloke was driving cabs at the time yet only lasted a short period before his life changed overnight. Given what he’d endured I imagined he would rather be mugged on the job than dumped by his wife and lose his son. Not to mention the feeling of returning home, alone.

After a period he came back to Australia but it wasn’t long before acute loneliness and depression kicked in, resulting in a psychotic episode requiring hospitalisation.

After one month of intensive care involving psychotropic drugs and counselling – “I didn’t receive one visitor”, he said, a number of times - he was finally discharged.

We chatted about his treatment, driving cabs and the Family Court. Whilst he had a factory job waiting and a share apartment with some Malaysian students, there is no family or friends her to support him through the crucial recovery phase, only medication.

In heavy peak hour traffic in Glebe I pulled into a side street, stopped the meter and brought two coffees. Sanjay was in no rush and clearly appreciative of the interaction. Standing on the street smoking and drinking coffee I noted he was quite tall and good looking.

Back in the cab I encouraged him to join a social club with a view to female companionship. Whilst it won’t compensate for the loss of his son it will at least provide a distraction from the pain.

Another suggestion was to watch thirty minutes of comedy each day for the restorative powers of a good belly laugh. I recommended The Simpsons. And the virtues of physical exercise as there is evidence that elevated endorphin levels counteract depression. With this he showed me a Beyond Blue carry bag of brochures issued by the hospital.

Nearing the destination Sanjay started quietly singing in English. It was a traditional Hindu psalm of thanks and imparted a blessing. How the Lord had come down from the mountains and of all the millions before him had seen fit to lay hands on me. Or something like that.

Sure, it was touching to be the subject of such praise, but I couldn't help thinking of the utter forlornness from receiving no visitors whilst committed to a mental institution.

No wonder he alighted from the cab backwards with hands held high in the prayer position and bowed. I would, too.

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Masters

Sydney is currently hosting the World Masters Games. Like the 2000 Olympics, however, there’s not much in it for cabbies as participants receive free public transport. Bugger.

Early yesterday morning I collected a Canadian couple from St Vincent’s Hospital where the woman had been treated for torn knee ligaments. A middle-aged soccer player she’s now facing weeks on crutches. They were somewhat disappointed as a planned holiday in Cairns after the Games looks doubtful.

Last night an elderly gent hailed me at Edgecliff station after spending the day training at the Olympic Aquatic Centre. He is a member of the Australian diving squad, despite only having previous competitive experience as a young fella. If nothing else, I thought, the bloke’s got guts.

When he revealed that he was competing in the 70-79 age group, I remarked there was hope for me yet. “That’s nothing,” he chuckled. “Today a 100 year old woman threw the shot put over four metres!”

A farmer from northern New South Wales he prepared for the Games by travelling down to Newcastle to train in a diving pool. I joked that he should've gone to The Blue Hole and dived off a gum tree. He laughed, “Nah, I don’t mind the travelling, it’s better than drenching sheep.” Quite.

Thus Cablog is adopting this passenger, John Payne as our official Masters competitor. Although he reckons, "I’ll probably do no good after seeing the Yanks train", to me he looks in pretty good shape for his age.

Results will be posted through the competition, starting tomorrow. Go John !

(According to Google, John is the father of a well-known Wallaby)

UPDATE: As John predicted, the Americans proved too strong and pipped him out of the medals to fourth place in both the one and three metre springboard events. Though I'm sure this is a minor concern for John who seemed more interested in just competing, like most Masters. Well done.

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The lugger

Outside St Vincent’s Hospital this morning a couple hailed me. The bloke was well built with flowing blonde hair and wore designer jeans fashionably ripped at the knees. Yet this was where the style ended for they were what many would label as scumbags.

He opened the door and asked, “Do you take EFTPOS?” I nodded and resigned myself to being ripped off with a stolen credit card. “I know I got forty bucks there so I’m good for it, man.” They climbed in, he took the front and ordered an eastern suburbs beach.

She was rough as guts, or to be tactful, a rough diamond. And he was a spitting image of Mickey Rourke’s character in The Wrestler with an aged, heavily tanned face framed by hair falling below the shoulders. But it was the freshly bandaged temple and blood spattered shirt which marked him as a battered old warrior.

“We was on the piss,” he explained, “and I seen this fella with a skateboard. I used to be a champion skater, eh, so I decided to show him a trick. That’s when I landed on me head and ended up in hospital.” She chimed in from the back seat with, “He’s fuckin’ fifty one and acting like a kid. You’d think he’d grow up, eh?”

The paramedics transported them to Casualty where she proceeded to abuse the staff. Probably they were made to wait their turn whilst he bled like a stuck pig. “Me missus told 'em to get fucked,” he laughed, “so they never stitched me up. Just used butterfly clips and threw us out.”

For the next ten minutes he related a life story of being in jail, committed to a mental institution, having six kids by another woman, how he loved the current missus, then in the next breath called her a bitch.

To quell her rising anger and cursing I advised him, “Mate, at least she’s looking after you.” “Yeah but then she’ll tell the neighbours to get fucked and the cops will come and arrest me for the AVO." They both laughed hard at this, despite the fact that she had sought the AVO against him.

She then suggested, “Hey, let’s go see Mick.” “She wants to score drugs,” he said winking at me, “some painkillers.” His attempts to win favour with me at her expense betrayed the fact he’d never grown up and reminded one of Sam de Brito’s Lost Boys.

As he drawled on in a drunken monotone, most probably compounded by painkillers, concussion and loss of blood, I wondered how they kept it together. Maybe life was one long emergency, a day to day struggle surviving on welfare. Or a vicious co-dependency founded on mutual misery.

By the time we arrived at their unit block I was ready to being scammed with a dodgy card. She directed him to produce a debit card and which pin to use, then ordered me to hand it to her, once swiped. Amazingly it was accepted and the transaction approved.

My surprise must have been obvious. Opening his shirt to reveal a T-shirt he said, “See this..?” Across the chest was a company logo for a removal service. “You’re a lugger?” I asked. He smiled and proudly stated, “Fucken oath, man.”

It was if to say, ‘Look, we was never going to rip you ‘cause I got a job and real money, eh’.

And fair enough, too, point taken.

(Lugger derives from the verb, 'lug', to carry with difficulty)

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Messy

The long weekend was, in a word, messy, mostly due to the constant rain. Then there was the footy, the horse races and Parklife, all of which I managed to avoid with some deft navigation. Otherwise there was the usual parade of lost phones, lost wallets and lost minds.

A constant worry was the double demerit points in force over the weekend. Had a near miss after sailing through the dreaded Moore Park camera zone distracted by a (slightly) pregnant, (straight) blonde in raging hot pants who sat up front and proceeded to chat.

Despite resolving long ago to ignore passengers on that particular stretch of road I was completely thrown after hearing about her party. I mean, since when has Sleaze Ball been a venue for hens nights?

Fortunately there was no camera flash. Phew. Two months down, ten to go.

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Stand by

Currently I’m in the middle of a very busy work period of endless shifts resulting in less interaction with passengers due to general tiredness. This coupled with moving house and temporarily losing my cable connection means blogging will be sporadic over the next week or so. Otherwise I’ll try to post whenever possible. Stand by, base.

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Tarantino

Here's some taxi related, Friday entertainment from Quentin Tarantino. The first from Pulp Fiction is extra footage of Esmeralda's taxi scene which didn't make the final cut. The second is a snippet from the wonderful opening scene in Reservior Dogs when Mr Pink refuses to tip...

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Family

Late yesterday afternoon I took a radio booking in the inner city. Upon arrival I parked and waited outside an elegant historic home, tastefully converted into company headquarters.

Shortly an elderly gentleman emerged through the security gate. He was a spitting image of Colonel Saunders in a white casual suit and ornate cane. “You were supposed to drive in,” he grumbled opening the door. I told him the instructions were only to wait with no mention of driving in. It happens with phone bookings.

Next he ordered the air conditioning then became exasperated when it didn’t instantly chill. I was tempted to chide him for being a grumpy old bugger but bit my tongue and turned up the fan. No matter, he was soon comfortable enough to enter into an amicable conversation.

“I’m 83, you know,” he offered, explaining that he only worked three days a week. “It’s good for me, keeps my hand in.” I asked him, “So how’s your health?” “Excellent,” he replied, “touch wood.” Though not quite excellent, as I was soon to find out.

It didn’t take long to learn that he was one of Australia’s eminent publishers and had worked around the world in all positions, right up to Chairman. I inquired about their famous editor, currently the subject of a compelling documentary and he revealed that whilst president of the company in New York it was he who had employed her.

After I suggested his experiences would make an excellent memoir he told how the manuscript was well advanced. “My son is helping me write it, he’s won three Walkleys.” He related this with obvious pride, also mentioning a successful daughter and his grandchildren.

He was gracious enough to inquire about my business whilst reeling off facts and statistics on the current state of publishing. In the next breath he would suggest a cunning shortcut to avoid the banking traffic. No doubt about it, the bloke was sharp as a tack and certainly knew his stuff.

Yet it was only on arrival in his quiet street in an exclusive harbour side suburb that his years really showed. When I stopped at the number he gave he didn’t recognise the house in the dark, so I pulled over whilst he produced a notebook. He studied this intensely and apologised for keeping me waiting. It was clear he was in the early stages of dementia.

Finally he asked for number 15 and we pulled into the driveway of an imposing structure overlooking the harbour. I held the door open whilst he slowly heaved himself out, only to totter off to number 13. So I set him straight and walked him to his door, then waited until someone buzzed him inside.

I thought about the old fella a lot after that and what a pleasant conversationalist he had been, unlike many other businessmen preoccupied with their Blackberrys. And how after reaching the top of his profession, that it really doesn't matter about position and status when one's health goes haywire. Then all that matters is family and love. 

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