I stare death in the face several times a week.
A true!
No, I’m not getting jumped on my way home, no garrisons are battling out a turf war in Claremont, it’s simply this: I ride in taxis.

Back home, taking a taxi is usually a sedate, mundane experience reserved for those nights when no one wants to stay sober enough to drive. No so, Jamaica.

Here, I literally take my life in my hands, look Death square in the eye, and tell it to go suck its mother.

It is frequently said that its all “Jamaica, no problem” until a Jamaican gets behind a wheel. This is because no Jamaican driver can tolerate another vehicle traveling at the same speed, or GOD FORBID, overtaking him on the road. It is an insult to his manhood, and the offending car must be overtaken at all costs.

No matter if its a winding, rut-ridden backcountry road and huge trucks overladen with sugar cane are barreling through the hairpin turns from the opposite direction!

No matter if it is PITCH BLACK and the taxi has one headlight and there is no other car on the road and theres a three hundred foot drop to the bottom of the gorge on our left and no earthly reason to reach our destination at Mach 3 speeds!

The pedal must be put to the metal,caution thrown to the wind with impressive machismo, all systems go- unless there’s a police officer ahead. Then, on the cue of cars coming from the other direction, suddenly your driver is bucking is his seat belt and slowing to a cruise that would make your grandma impatient (well, not mine, mine would give Jamaican drivers a run for their money. Yes, you, Grandma Ellis, and your turbo German engines). He is reasonable, he is calm, he has the utmost respect for the rules of the road.

I am almost always the smallest adult in the car, which means I suffer the most indignities in the name of “Smalling Up”. Smallin’ up is exactly what it sounds like: a game of Sardines, where the driver stuffs as many passengers into the taxi as is humanly possible. And then adds one more for posterity. More people=more fares, which = less runs needed=more time at the bar. Ergo, Smallin’ up.

To give you an example: One fluffy (quite large) older woman, two decently sized younger women (one with a kid), a school-aged boy, say, 12, a larger guy around my age, and of course, Yours Truly all are waiting in Golden Grove for a ride to Ocho Rios. It should be mentioned that Jamaican women never carry purses smaller then a suitcase.

You, dear readers, are shaking your heads: NO WAY can this 1996 Toyota Caldera wagon fit ALL THOSE PEOPLE. Someone is going to have to wait for another taxi.

Ye of little faith! OF COURSE we can fit, here’s how: Fluffy lady goes in first, to the middle, flanked by the boy at one window, and the two younger women on the other side. Purse and pickney pon dem lap. The guy my age sits in the front passenger seat while I sit on the compartment/arm rest thingy between the two front seats, straddling the gear shift and holding onto the back of the headrests for Dear Life.
More times then I care to recall, I have paid for this dubious privelige, and I don’t have to tell you that when the inevitable head-on collision that MUST be coming my way happens, I’ll be the first through that windshield, one leg trapped underneath the dash board, probably wrenched off in the force of the crash.
I’m resigned to being a quadropelegic. I like my Diet Coke through a straw anyway.

In addition to the Formula One style of driving, there’s the music to be considered. Once you have wedged yourself into the taxi of your choice ( and they really are almost universally a white Toyota wagon of indeterminate age and suspect upholstery), you are at the mercy of your driver’s musical tastes. It’s pretty much a lose-lose situation. Your choices are:

Celine Dion’s Greatest Hits. Why straight men in Jamaica of all ages just fucking LOVE her I will never, ever fathom. But they do, and they know every word, and the dial will be cranked up, and everyone in the taxi will sing along. Except me. Usually, there is some Brian McKnight, or Savage Garden, or the Backstreet Boys between “My Heart Will Go On” and “Because You Loved Me.”

The Soulful Sounds of Christianity. There is, particularly, one record in mind that EVERY Jamaican church-going woman over the age of forty cannot get enough of. The lyrics go somewhat like this: “JESUS! Oh, sweet JESUS! JESUS! How I LOVE to call Your Name”, ect, ect. I am particularly well-acquainted with this one because it is my supervisors favorite album and I’ve listened to it (multiple times) ALL the way to Montego Bay and ALL the way home again. (It’s a 2.5 hour trip. Joy.) If you are lucky enough to be on a bus with this playing, women will be throwing up their arms and belting it out, swaying back and forth. You’ll want to hand them a lighter.

Irie Radio. Irie is the reggae/dancehall station of choice. I love reggae, I love dancehall, but the Jamaican style of DJ-ing is so abrasive, you’ll find yourself praying that death will hurry up and just GET HERE ALREADY. There are so many sound effects that you can barely hear the songs, and the DJ’s just adore talking THROUGH the songs. They will literally just stop the song half way or two thirds of the way into the track, and share something so trivial, so remotely related to the song that you want to tear your hair and scream at the radio JUST FUCKING PLAY THE GODDAMN SONG ALREADY. If your taxi driver is partial to this sort of thing, rest assured that it will be played at maximum volume, no matter how decrepit the stereo system.

Talk Radio. There is but one talk radio station here, and but one host (seemingly). He has a deep, articulate voice, and his delivery style is deliberate to the point of being laconic. Every…poiiiiinnnnnnnt…..is maaaaadddde……thussssssly. And the callers-in make Rush Limbaugh’s radio fan base look positively well-informed and down-right reasonable. Partly, this is because when Jamaicans speak in public, they take themselves far too seriously and everything becomes so formalized that nothing is said. The main point has become buried under a mountain of “as suches” and “persons” and the like. It is maddening. It makes one long for NPR or the BBC.

At some point I will dedicate an entire post to refuting that famous Bob Marley line “One good thing about music: when it hits, you feel no pain” (LIES! LIES!), but for now, this musts suffice as general guide as to what to expect.

And there you have it. Taxis in Jamaica. Worst driving in the Western Hemisphere. Jamaicans love to ask me -in the most gleeful tones imaginable- if I’ve ever met worse drivers. I regretfully have to inform them that the Indian Sub-Continent has them beat by a Tata bus-length.

Of course, after hearing this, they take a swig of Dragon Stout and overtake a heard of goats at breakneck speeds. Clearly, they feel they can do better.