Fortunately my camel-soul is still meandering along some steppeland between Beijing and here.
Even having negotiated the local rate in Mongolxel, fragmented all the same; even having packed our cameras, tripods and luggage into the backseat of the car, not the boot, or maybe because of it; even while judiciously monitoring the meter; the taxi driver still managed to hit his magic little button to triple the rate instantaneously.
Due to the fact I am judiciously monitoring said meter, I immediately anger. Mitch orders stop. Eventually the driver pulls over. We stagger our belongings out of the backseat while arguing manically with His Spinelessness.
And, there it is: that niggling anxiety that permeates the living, working in UB.
In saying this, it was a great hot bath just now.
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1 comment:
Yeah you tell him Miranda. I think all taxi drivers take a course on defrauding foreigners, and sadly many seem to excel...
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