Qingdao, China: Adrenaline (cont.)

While the sirens continued to blare, the taxi driver, who was nothing more than a black head of hair to me, shifted and popped gears as though he were in the pole tryouts for a NASCAR race. The inside of the taxi was white vinyl. The driver sat in a cage which didn’t make much sense to me, because people could still stick things into the cage if they really wanted to hurt the driver. These and other random, useless thoughts meandered through my mind like the constant drip of anesthetic sedating me. I barely acknowledged my sweaty palm in my husband’s. I looked over to say something to him, but all I could manage was to widen my eyes as the taxi swerved again, and the weight of my pack on my lap caused me to lose my balance and fall towards the side window. My husband’s grip kept me from smashing my head into the glass.

The taxi was all over the road, cutting and weaving its way through traffic like a snake on the forest floor. Unrelenting, he forced onward, slamming on the breaks, gunning the gas, blowing red lights, an onslaught of breaking and acceleration. All the while the Police car and its whining sirens pressed in upon us, menacingly close, but never quite reaching. The taxi came upon a traffic circle.

“He wouldn’t. He can’t,” I heard the words fall out of my mouth in disbelief. Telepathically I willed him to cease this madness.

“He is,” my husband said calmly, like a person who had made his peace with god.

“I can’t look,” I cried, as I flung my free hand over my eyes. While the flow of traffic went around counterclockwise, through the slits between my fingers I could see the taxi driver veer clockwise into oncoming-traffic. We both spontaneously laughed out loud in disbelief.  By chance we were able to weave through the cars, but when two busses taking up both lanes came onto the horizon, I had to close my eyes tight and grip my husband’s hand tighter.  He responded in turn, and then I heard him let out a sigh. I opened my eyes again but had to avert them immediately for the buses were still coming. I noticed for the first time a miniature yellow car glued to the dashboard, the kind that comes in cereal boxes. I heard my husband’s breath actually stop as the taxi slipped by the buses with no room to spare. The sound of the sirens could still be heard behind us. Before I could catch my breath, the driver thrust the car to the right, driving the taxi onto a pedestrian only walkway. A squawk escaped my mouth.   In addition to risking our lives, the driver might now kill other defenseless people on the walkway.

We were reeling around the backseat, while our driver dodged bodies on the walkway.  Between clenching my eyelids shut, I caught glimpses of bodies leaping away from the car. It struck me again how little clothing they were wearing for winter.  Everything past before my eyes in a blur of grey, black with the occasion splash of color. I also heard voices shouting; sweat beads formed on my brow; my clothes were excruciatingly warm.

Suddenly the car stopped moving.  We had reached the end of the walkway. There was complete silence, no sirens, screeching wheels, or nervous yelps, only the sound of three hearts battering the insides of their chests. I sighed and relaxed the death grip I had on my husband's hand. After a pregnant moment, the taxi driver turned to face us for the first time and yelled.

 “Polishee, buck you,”  he said in broken English. His young face broke into hysterical laughter. I looked at my husband with wide eyes, and giggled wildly.  

“We could have died,” I said in a hushed tone that barely disguised the crazed rage.

“I know,” he responded in kind.

The driver laughed again with obvious pride.  “Sawree, sawree” he said in broken English with his hand opened, palms facing outward, the international sign for an apology. Then he pointed to the dash where the little car was glued, then pointed to himself and said “Schumacher.” A big smile swept across his face. Continuing to chortle, he took out a pack of Marlboro Reds. He offered us a smoke; we declined. We didn’t want to die, quickly or slowly.

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