Taxi rank: Mumbai airport - Friday 7pm. There are no cabs in cooee and a long queue stand in line. The suited bloke next to me is fuming, railing through wild eyes against a system that has failed. He breathes fire in the direction of a tubby policeman who he reckons is in on the scam. The word is rain and traffic have conspired with the mercenary tendencies of Mumbai's cabbies to screw us all. No cabs, customers accumulating, and a bidding war has begun far away from the rank. Another bloke defends the cabbies - 'just rational behaviour... they see an opportunity and they're taking it.' And so we all stand, waiting, arguing, hoping that playing by the rules might deliver us a ride home. The man in suit moves onto politics - 'if we don't do anything nothing will ever change, the criminals just keep getting away with it.' He points at me - the very symbol of foreignness in my farangi uniform of shorts and t-shirt. 'Look at how the world sees us. They know it shouldn't be like this'. I speak on behalf of the world - 'our cabs are crap too'. His anger turns to purple and he storms off to yell at some people in colourful Marathi. In ten minutes he returns with a cab by the scruff of the neck. He points at me and yells 'get in!' I obey and shake his hand in thanks - he yells louder 'get in now!'. And as I ride off into the Mumbai streets, driven by a wizened old driver whose ear is still ringing with the verbal belting he's received, I look back to see the argument continue - raised arms and raised voices jousting in complete agreement.
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