What the taxi driver thinks...

View from the back seat, note the in-car entertainment!

Just back from a very productive trip to Herat. Over the last two days we visited all of the Herati applicants on our provisional shortlist plus a few that didn't quite make it but offer good potential for the second round.

One of the highlights of the trip was the chance to have a talk with a local taxi driver. This kind of reality check from spending time with somebody who has no agenda with our project, and probably zero exposure to the world of donors and development (apart from the occasional inquisitive passenger) is so valuable in forming my own opinions on the necessity and effectiveness of our work.

I don't want to risk getting the poor chap into trouble, so let's just say that his name was Abdul. And advance apologies for the way that I report the conversation, I realise that I have not captured the emotion of some of the story. But nevertheless, I believe that it is an encounter worth retelling.

Abdul the taxi driver is probably around 40 years old (I didn't like to ask) and one of 8 people in his family. He is the sole bread winner for his 5 children (oldest 13, down to the youngest aged just 1), his wife and his mother. He is from Herat and apart from a period spent as a refugee in Iran, he has always lived in the city.

His memories are sobering but at the same time his views on life are inspiring.

First, we discussed how he felt about the taxi driving and how things were going generally in Herat. I asked what it was like making a living as a taxi driver, how life is in Herat. He said that "for the rich businessmen everything is fine, but for people like me, all we can do is try to make enough money to survive." Abdul explained that he works about 12 hours per day, earning something between USD25 and 30, of which more than half goes on fuel. he also has to keep his taxi running, which costs him quite a lot in spare parts. He told me that sometimes he doesn't earn enough to feed the family properly and then he gets stressed and ends up having arguments with his wife. "Being a taxi driver in Kabul would be much better than Herat, there are more people."

He said that he tries really hard to avoid trouble with the traffic police, "I know all the rules of how to drive and I don't have problems." But his big issue is with corruption, "Every day people want money for something, sometimes I have to give 3 or 4 bribes every day. If the official price is 100Afs (USD2), I have to pay 300Afs."

As we talk about different things, he suddenly tells a story about his last job. He had a job driving for a government organisation, but when his annual contract came up, the boss told him that he had to pay 20,000Afs to keep his job, "but my salary was only 8,500Afs, and I couldn't afford it." He decided to complain, and then it turned out that other people were complaining about this person as well. Apparently, there was even a prosecution pending because this individual had been taking illegal payments from the companies that used his organisation's services. According to Abdul, everything had been investigated and the case prepared.

Then the person involved "went to Kabul and instead of losing his job, he paid off the people in the ministry and came back to Herat". I could tell that although Abdul accepted that life was like this, he still had a keen sense of the injustice of losing his own job while his boss kept his by paying off his superiors.

Giving alms at the mosque

We stopped off at the mosque in the centre of the city and walked through the beautiful courtyards. He shows me various details. But, I suppose not surprisingly, even as I am admiring the beauty of the building, seeing women and children begging by the entrance is a stark reminder of the poverty that pervades this country.

Once back in the car, we talked about whether things were getting any better or any worse. Abdul compared his current life with the past, he looked back on the time when Najibullah was president, "The security was much worse then. When you went out in the morning, you didn't know if you would come home in the evening. But things were cheap and the shops had plenty of things to buy. The best times were Dr Najib and the early Karzai times. Now it is very difficult."

But during the fighting between the Mujaheddin and the Russians things were not easy for Abdul's family. As the security in Herat got worse, his father was shot and killed when he was out on the streets. The family left Herat and went to Iran, but they found things difficult, "I couldn't work, people were very unfriendly, they treated us badly and shouted at us, calling us names." Abdul told the story of when he was queuing for bread in Iran, the local people would talk against him because he was buying more bread for his family, which was larger than the typical Iranian family, "I had to buy 5 breads for my family, but they only needed two."

We moved on to happier topics. Abdul told me more about his children. He says that having children is very expensive, that he pays 1,200 Afs each month for private school for two of his children, because "when they went to the public school, after two years they could not even write their names". Now he says that they are doing much better, after a year in the new school they can read and write. He is obviously very proud of their achievements.

Herat industrial park while landing

I tell him that I have two children. He says, "You are very sensible. I have tried to stop having children, but then I make mistakes!" We laugh together at the thought.

As we reach our destination, a factory on the industrial park near to Herat airport, I say to him that listening to his story made me so thankful that I was born in a more stable country. Rather foolishly, I said that if I were him I would be quite angry. He pauses before answering and says, "What can you do? This is what life is like."

My meeting at the industrial park is with one of the wealthiest businessmen in Herat. After an hour or so of admiring his newly installed production lines, it is time to leave and he walks me back to my car. When he sees the battered taxi, he looks surprised, "You came by taxi! That makes a change, you people normally come in armoured land cruisers with body guards... That's the way to know what is going on, talk with the ordinary people." We say goodbye, and part of me is feeling quite smug and self-satisfied with my decision to travel around Herat in a 1994 Corolla with "ordinary people". And then I realise with some regret how much more relaxed I had felt talking with a rich man about his big investment plans, compared to the discomfort I had felt as I listened to the tribulations of Abdul's life.

Rarely do I get the chance to have such a prolonged and interesting conversation with a stranger in Afghanistan. But Abdul's warmth and generosity of spirit really struck me and it reminded me that at the end of the day, development is about people who are living in miserable circumstances right now, and who have to struggle with all sorts of problems that I can barely imagine each and every day. I take my hat off to people like Abdul.