There are a few good indicators that you’ve been in Abu Dhabi for a certain amount of time. Firstly, I no longer convert money back into my home currency of pounds sterling. So what if a carton of orange juice costs three times more than it does in the UK? That’s just the way it is.
Secondly, I’ve picked up a handful of useful words in Arabic, Filipino and Urdu – probably the most commonly spoken languages in the city. And thirdly, and most worryingly, I no longer bother conversing with taxi drivers.
Things were different when I moved to the city three years ago. After flagging down a cab, I’d jump into the front seat and even before that friendly female voice had welcomed me to Abu Dhabi taxis, and reminded me to put on my seat belt and make sure my driver had switched on the meter, I’d have sparked up a heated discussion with the guy behind the wheel.
And a thoroughly enlightening experience it has been too. I’ve learnt about the political turmoil in northern Pakistan, the lurid lifestyles of a few high-profile Bollywood stars, the selection dilemmas faced in Indian cricket’s bowling department and more.
Sadly, these days are long gone. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but suddenly my eagerness for small talk waned. It’s not that I’ve in anyway grown less appreciative of the vital job the city’s cabbies undertake in transporting the vehicle-less around the capital, it’s just that after so many hundreds of journeys, I’ve finally exhausted every conversation topic known to man.
Nowadays, I’ll climb into the backseat, tell them my destination and spend the journey avoiding eye contact, while responding to emails and checking the BBC website on my Blackberry. But my drivers seem willing to comply with our forced silence. The closest we generally come to a chatting now is when, while stuck in a non-moving jam on Salam Street, he exclaims ‘too much traffic’, while I nod approvingly.
However, on a recent taxi journey on a return trip from Yas Island – in an elated mood after hearing some classic Stevie Wonder tunes – I decided that this self-imposed iron curtain of communication between myself and taxi drivers must end. After jumping into the front seat, I cheerily enquired: ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Bangladesh, sir,’ he replied sullenly, eyes firmly fixed on the road. ‘Ah Bangladesh, you have some very good cricketers? Tamin Iqbal?’ Not a word. ‘What is there to see in Bangladesh, should I choose to visit?’ He replied, ‘hotels.’ After another awkward pause, I tried: ‘Um, too much traffic.’ No answer. And that was it, we sat in awkward silence for the rest of the 40-minute trip. So, the taxi quietly pulled up outside my apartment block and, without even so much as a goodbye I handed him Dhs30 for the cab fare. I’m guessing he didn’t convert the dirhams into Bangladeshi dollars in his mind.
