A memorable drive for Shahji
By Baljit Kang

FOR centuries Australia was the lost continent, known only to its few million aboriginal inhabitants content to inhabit the Dreaming World and leave well enough alone. Then two centuries ago the Englishman descended to frown down on everything Australian even as he closed the continent to other comers. But with time the native dream spirits worked their magic and in the early eighties, as if to atone for past sins, the continent threw open its doors to all comers.

It must have opened them very wide indeed to allow in Sydney’s current crop of taxi drivers, many of whose sole qualification for the job is unalloyed enthusiasm incorrupted by such trivia as the ability to understand basic English or steer a car. But even these worthies pale in comparison with Shahji, the ingenuous Pakistani taxi driver who, when he is not himself being steered through by his hapless passengers, cheerfully drives them to distraction or whatever other neuroses they fancy.

For Shahji is Sydney’s answer to the savvy New York’s ‘no habla Ingles’ cabbies. He even does one better, he doesn’t know how to drive (not what most people call driving anyway) and has only the foggiest idea of metropolitan Sydney’s layout.

So how did he get a licence, you ask? Simple when you are Shahji actually, who, for all his other failings is endowed with unusual persistence, native cunning and, when required, a thoughtful and taciturn silence more in keeping with a university professor. Which indeed he would have been had not fate and an entire continent come in the way.

For Shahji, an agriculture graduate from the backwaters of Pakistan, first came to Sydney with a dream of academia in his eye. But it did not take him long to realise that his degree was just so much paper in the eyes of the university and of would-be White employer. Or that his halting and highly accented English excluded him from most others jobs. So after a few months at odd jobs and even discrimination Shahji found himself increasingly drawn towards the taxi professions, with its relative degree of freedom and fairly good money.

But before that the tough city council examination for a cab drivers licence. And for that Sam Benson and his taxi school, by now a virtual institution in the city’s lore. Which, unlike the fancy city places, in Sam’s school you don’t have to know English to learn cab-driving. For Sam, a veteran of decades of teaching non-English speakers to drive, everyone from Greeks to Lebanese to Vietnamese boat people, has arrived at an idiom that transcends culture-specific language.

And a hard-nosed teaching technique which, while it may not transform a monkey into a race-rallyist can outfit him as a Sydney taxi driver. But even Sam had begun to despair of Shahji when six weeks, a crash and several near-misses later he jokingly suggested that it was time the ‘professor’ took his expertise to the streets and a more public audience.

The sarcasm was lost on Shahji, who immediately applied to take the test. Failed and applied again, and then again. Till, on his sixth attempt Shahji, by now an old mate at the driving test facility, and with the aid of maps memorised through techniques perfected in committing to memory subject ‘guides’ just before an exam, sailed through the choppy examination, across harbour bridge and to his first taxi job at Lane Cove. Where, to the horror of his Chinese employer, he steered the latter’s shiny new Ford straight into a wall.

Needless to add that first job lasted all of four hours, the time it took to tow the cab to a neighbouring garage. But given the long hours entailed and the paucity of taxi drivers jobs were not a problem. Besides, now that Shahji had cut his teeth and got the hang of the technique things could only get better.

So realising that he did not know the crowded and over-patrolled inner city well enough Shahji sensibly decided to give down town a wide berth. His two way radio, a cab-drivers demanding task master, with its unreasonable when not actually incomprehensible demands was similarly silenced as Shahji restricted his routine to picking up passengers from the airport at the relatively crowd-free early morning hours and driving them along the freeways to the city, not entering it till near their point of disembarkation.

This usually meant cutting a wider circle than was prudent from the point of view of economy. But since it was the passenger who was paying and it was their lives he was saving, Shahji found no cause for complaint. And if an ungrateful passenger did, Shahji’s limited English and permanently harried expression saved him from the worst of the harangues. If a passenger persisted Shahji would painfully point out that this was the only route he knew. Just how well Shahji seems to have managed these varied chores became manifest on the memorable day that a Gora drove Shahji.

That day Shahji had been at the stand outside the airport as usual when his Gora, a business passenger from London who had flown in for an important convention later that morning, came up to him. His destination a friends apartment at Paramatta, on the outskirts of the city, for a quick shower and a change of clothes before driving in for the meeting. And Shahji was engaged for the entire trip.

The 40-minute trip into Paramatta went off without a hitch and they were on their way back when Shahji suffered the first blow-out of his career, as with a loud bang the front left tyre came undone. Though untutored for the eventuality, Shahji gamely fought the controls and brought the car screeching to a halt in the accidents lane. He was still revelling in his ‘providential’ escape when, like a voice from on high, the Gora spoke. "Well?"

"Yes very well, thank you. And also very lucky," Shahji said relieved and just beginning to take cognisance of the Gora’s existence.

"Get me another cab, driver."

"How?" Shahji said blankly.

"Use your radio mate," Gora said.

"Radio no working," Shahji replied and tapped it in explanation. At which the infidel instrument hissed to life. But since all it did was hiss Shahji was saved further embarrassment. Though that still left the original problem unresolved.

"I have to get another taxi," Gora said looking anxiously at his watch. "I know," Shahji said sympathetically.

"But I can’t get a taxi on the freeway mate" Gora pointed out.

"I know," Shahji finished helpfully.

"Well don’t just stand there mate. Do something, for god sake".

"What?" Shahji asked grinning in conciliation.

"If the radio doesn’t work change the tyre mate. It’s only a flat after all. But get moving please. I am already running late."

It was Shahji’s moment of truth. The moment in which he sensed that he could not change the tyre, never had in his now several month long apprenticeship. But it was a truth he was loath to confess too.

"No have tyre," he said instead.

This was too much for Gora, now driven to despair. "How can you no have tyre?" Gora said mimicking Shahji in his frustration.

"No have tyre?" Shahji repeated. ‘Given repair," he said brightening. While Gora might have been satisfied with the response in most circumstances the looming certainty of his missed meeting fuelled him to more resolute action. He stepped out to examine the damaged tyre, then walked up to Shahji. "May I have a go at the radio please?"

Shahji, a great believer in self-help manuals, pointed out the controls while Gora attempted to tease them to life. To be rewarded with more static from the long unused instrument. "See" Shahji said sounding the right note of concern, "no work." Or perhaps not quite the right note, for Gora extracted the key from the ignition, went around to the boot and opened it, while Shahji ran after him alarmed. Before Shahji could register protest the boot had been thrown open and Gora was looking at the spare tyre, worn but workable.

"Not my tyre", Shahji said weakly. But when the Gora extracted it he did not protest. It was only after Gora had positioned the tyre next to the damaged one and stepped aside to allow him to take over that Shahji finally reacted.

"I don’t know how to change tyre," he admitted glumly.

"You don’t what ..." the Gora said incredulously. "How did they make. ..." Then realising he could not afford to waste time in long-winded explanations he finished "never mind". Slipping of his coat he handed it to Shahji rolled up his sleeves and, after placing a mat on the floor to minimise damage to his executive trousers, got on with the job. While towering above him like the regal valet he now resembled Shahji looked on, adding a suggestion here, a nut there, even pointing out a patch of molten grease that now marred the tyre-hub’s exterior for Gora’s specialist attention. And when the tyre was replaced and the boot firmly closed there was no one more pleased than Shahji himself, who complimented Gora for a job well done. Gora looked back at him uncertainly, not sure how he ought to react.

Shahji decided for him. "Aren’t we getting late?"

"Yes" Gora, who like most White men was prisoner to the luminous dial around his wrist said uncertainly, staring absently at the watch. "I guess we should be getting on. He slipped in behind the passenger seat. "And driver, could you please take the direct route in instead of the Great Western. We could save 20 minutes. I would just be in time.

"I don’t know ....’ Shahji said uncertainly.

"What do you mean you don’t know?" Gora said incredulously. "I am the passenger. It isn’t rush hour yet. And I demand we take the shortest route in," he finished, more astonished than angry.

"I know you passenger", Shahji said. "But I don’t know route".

"You don’t know what?" Gora said livid with frustration. Then as the absurdity of the situation struck him he burst out laughing. Finally, fighting down his laughter he asked, "Driver, do you mind if I drive." "But you don’t have taxi-driver licence" Shahji said, appalled.

"I have my driving licence. And I’ll take the chance of a ticket, should we get one. It’s the only way I am going to get to my meeting in time," Gora said reasonably. Seeing Shahji hesitate he said I know the area like the back of my hand. I was born in Paramatta and lived here until seven years ago.

Now law-abiding citizen that Shahji was, he was nevertheless open to reason and, seeing Gora’s plight, he allowed himself to be persuaded. So with Gora in the driver seat, Shahji slipped into the navigator seat beside him. From which vantage point he proceeded to alert Gora to oncoming diversions and traffic hazards that had come up during Gora’s long absence and now loomed up every few seconds. And a good navigator he was too, for he had Gora in the city and at his conference venue with a full ten minutes to spare.

"Well ..." Gora said both relieved at making it in time and a little overcome by the unusual role reversal.

"Well yes," Shahji acknowledged brightly. Then sensing something more was required he added almost wistfully, "and that will be $ 123 please."

That forthright request, though humbly worded, served to bring their relationship back on an even keel as Gora reached for his wallet. But even after he had paid out the money Gora lingered on, as if wanting to prolong the moment.

"Well," Shahji said, grinning with relief as he got back behind the wheel. "Thank you kind sir. And now I go get the tyre repaired."

"Yes," Gora replied amiably. "And yes, learn how to change tyres. The next time you have a flat your passenger might be a skinhead. We wouldn’t want that, would we," he grinned.

"No" Shahji said. "Skinny head can no change tyre, no." At that both men laughed and Gora winked conspiratorially as Shahji put the car in gear and slowly pulled away, waving as he went. Then Gora walked confidently inside, all charged up for his conference.

While sadly we lost track of Gora in the sea of White faces, Shahji can still be found outside the airport most evenings.

He is the lean dark man with a greying moustaches, driving glasses and the warm come-hither look made famous by a generation of expatriate Punjabi taxi drivers. But should you be headed Sydney-way come Olympics and encounter him remember to keep your wits about you. And yes, take your driving licence . Last I heard Shahji still hadn’t learnt how to drive.