A story, and 12 seconds from a 2 hour taxi ride in Mumbai, India.
It started with a question and a misplaced assumption.
“Can I get a taxi to the airport?”
“Yes,” the hotel guard replied.
“International airport, non-AC, cheapest, yeah?”
“Yes, yes.”
And so he walks into the street with me trailing behind, pulls out his whistle, starts looking for taxis on the busy street, and hails a taxi sitting in front of the hotel next door. The taxi driver slowly edges up the twenty feet to the hotel guard and I, and the hotel guard starts explaining what I want in Hindi.
“500 rupees, ok?”
“Meter. Use the meter,” I reply.
“No, 500 rupees,” with a shake of the head and the positive body language of an expected agreement.
“No, use the meter.”
A bit of a conversation between the hotel guard and the taxi driver ensues.
“Ok, 450 rupees”, the taxi driver says, as he gets out of the car and opens the door.
“300 rupees.”
General derisiveness ensues, with various versions of “300 too cheap” bandied about by the hotel guard and the taxi driver.
“I’ve paid 300 rupees before,” I reply, holding my ground, even though my memory isn’t spot-on.
“No, 300 too cheap.”
“No it’s not. I’ve taken this ride before. 300 rupees, or use the meter.”
“From here? Maybe to domestic airport? International is farther.”
“Yep, from around here, to international airport, Sahara.”
Perhaps this is when both the taxi driver and the hotel guard discard their initial assumption. In any case, the taxi driver gives up, and with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head, gets back in his car and backs up back to his waiting spot in front of the fancier hotel.
The hotel guard hails another taxi, has a little conversation with the driver and then pulls down the flag on the meter.
“This man is a good man, take this taxi.”
“Using the meter? Good. Thank you.”
As I get in the taxi, a longer conversation in Hindi ensues, perhaps meaningful, perhaps not, but it ends with the hotel guard wishing me a good day and the taxi driver taking off.
2 hours later, after braving the crowded, dusty, bustling Mumbai streets, a 30 km battle of man vs. car vs. bus vs. rickshaw vs. motorbike vs. pedestrian vs. construction vs. general rubble vs. disorganization vs. too many people vs. good common sense, we arrive at the airport. The taxi driver checks out the meter, pulls out the rate card and figures out the appropriate fare, all in front of me in the light so I can see the meter and the rate card.
“291 rupees,” he says.
I hand him 330 rupees as I leave, surprised by my memory, amazed by the ride, excited to be at the airport, thankful that the taxi driver took care of me, and wishing I could go back to the hotel guard and the original taxi driver and say “see? see?”.
Was I originally getting ripped off? Probably not. Was I treated differently because I was a foreigner? A little, but not as much as you might think. Did they make a misplaced assumption that they owned an information asymmetry advantage? Yes.
But remember, that happens everywhere. All that matters is that I was safe at the airport, ready for another hop, one step closer to home.
