Society
Now what? - Lauren Booth discusses Ugandan relations in a minicab
Published 02 February 2004
My night spent discussing Ugandan relations in the back of a minicab
Regular readers will know that I have great respect for minicab drivers. In the past six years, I have learnt more about ancient Greek philosophy, Islam, nutrition, spirituality, economics, Iraq, Afghanistan and eastern Europe while being driven across London than if I'd studied at the Open University.
One evening recently, my Pakistani driver explained what those posters in Asian newsagents for phone cards are all about. And guess what: they're about saving tons of money by using a different exchange from BT. All you do is buy a £5 card, log in, then talk to anywhere in the world for about 200 minutes. No matter how often I call France, I can't seem to make a dent in my £5 card - and that's using my mobile.
As we sped towards the BBC, he began telling me about the time he drove the Ugandan president to an "unofficial" meeting with George Bush's people and Foreign Office officials.
"Just before the war began," he said, "the president took a private jet to London. At his people's expense. People that don't even have drinking water! And he sat in the back here with a Bush woman." The woman handed over a list of "demands" to Uganda's president to be met in return for US "investment" in the country.
When the president was dropped off, Bush's woman turned to my driver: "You heard all that: what do you think about the US helping nations such as Afghanistan and Iraq and now Uganda?"
"Help them?" he cried, "You are throwing cluster bombs at them! How are you being helped if you're dead? Please do me a favour, don't help anyone else. We don't want to die like the Afghans and the Iraqis! Just stay away from us!"
"How dare you!" spluttered the American.
But my heroic driver was on a roll. "You tell Bush-bastard - stay out of Kashmir!"
By now I was laughing and cheering, barely able to make notes in the back of his cab. He told me how he'd overcharged the American by £100. Locking the doors until she paid up.
"What's a hundred pounds to a wealthy American woman?" The woman tried to get him the sack by telling his controller he'd been insulting and overcharged her. It didn't work. The controller simply asked what he'd done with the money.
"I sent the money to a friend in Pakistan so he could marry his fiancee. It was dowry money."
I went to work smiling that night, musing about how one person can make a difference.
Britain's roads provided me with another exciting adventure last week. We were an odd group - three charity workers and two lobbyists - crossing the street. My friend Jane, one of the charity workers, was standing beneath some traffic lights, pressing the button on its little box. The button that is supposed to change the lights to red - but didn't.
The lights were green and the cars swished past. Jane shrugged: "It's so annoying: you know that these buttons never seem to control traffic lights." But just as she said this, the lights magically turned red. They barely touched amber. They just went green-blink-red. The two men, "political movers and shakers", were stunned. Whenever we meet, they glory in hinting at clandestine meetings and intergovernmental deals - but did they know the secret of the magic button? No.
"Wow!" we screeched, "Amazing." The button actually worked! The next half-hour we ran around Islington fiddling with traffic light knobs, leaping up and down every time car tyres screeched to an irritated halt.
Try it today and feel the buzz of power. It's a small strike for the freedom of the pedestrian: we can cross whenever we want - not when the forces of the state dictate.
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