My flight from Taipei to Manila leaves at eleven o’clock this morning.
While I could take the MRT to the bus station to an airport bus, I wake up late, poorly rested, and slightly hungover. I decide to take a taxi.
You might assume getting to the airport is just like getting from it, only in reverse, but in fact it’s completely different. Here’s what I’ve noticed.
- I’ve been in town for a while, know how much a Diet Coke costs, and am perhaps learning to price things the way locals do. In some less developed destinations, this learning process can take a long time. Traveling through India back in ’91, my friends and I started out paying twenty-five rupees for a cup of milk tea – the every day kind you get from street vendors; three weeks later we realized that Indians got the same beverage for a single rupee.
- I can ask locals how much it would cost them to get to the airport. And I now have access to people who don’t spend all day in the airport arrivals hall. Granted, just because I know the price doesn’t mean I’ll get it. I’ve met many a taxi driver who’d rather lose my business than let me pay the going rate. Maybe they’re acting out of principle, striking a blow against a world where the country you’re born in determines how much money you have.
- You’ve got a time constraint: the flight.
And, as usual, I’m running late, standing on the sidewalk this morning, checking the time, hoping for a cab to arrive soon. It’s drizzling and overcast, washing out all the colors except for the orange and green 7-11 sign across the street.
My friend Jim told me 800 NT will get me to the airport. He said “will,” not “should,” so I’m going to stick to that number. Paying any more would bring embarrassment on myself (a.k.a. “losing face”). Strangely, I don’t want to lose face. It’s the principle of it, my small strike against the world; not my fault I was born to American parents.
Anyway, I’m determined to haggle until I get the magic 800.
Soon, a cab pulls up. Instead of getting in I get the driver to roll down his window. This is a negotiation tactic: staying on the curb is body language for “I’m ready to let you drive off if you won’t come down in price.”
In Chinese I say, “airport. 800 dollars. Okay?”
He responds with “1000” and nods. He’s figuring I’ll meet him half way – 900 – but if I’d wanted to do that, I’d have started at 600. This is Taipei, not Tanzania, and I feel my Chinese skills should exempt me from the half-way game.
“800,” I say again, frowning.
He drives off.
Perhaps he’d already sized me up as a tourist (of which there aren’t too many in Taiwan), and was already looking forward to that extra 200 NT. Or maybe he didn’t want to drive all the way to the airport.
Thirty seconds later – and I’m keeping half an eye on the time – another taxi appears. Roll down the window and repeat.
“Airport. 800. Okay?”
He’s in his fifties, pleasant enough; doesn’t look like an ex-con (many Taiwanese taxi drivers are).
“900”, he says, smiling and nodding vigorously. A ploy to make me nod with him. It’s hard to say ‘no’ once you’ve started nodding.
But at least the price is moving in the right direction.
“Not okay,” I say, smiling to soften the fact that I’d just said no. “800. Okay?”
He shakes his head and puts both hands on the steering wheel.
I stand back and look down the road. Another cab is pulling up. Now it’s a buyer’s market so I’m not at all surprised that Mr. 900 NT is waving at me, motioning for me to get in.
“800?” I say again, just to confirm.
A funny shift occurs when a merchant has agreed to your price; they’ll suddenly go non-verbal. A shrugging of the shoulders or slow blink is the only clue you get that the deal is done. Learn to read this subtle language of acuiescence.
So the cab driver never actually says, “800”. Instead, he sorta nods nervously, and says hau – Chinese for “good.”
No one likes to lose, and I – a foreigner – have just watched him pretend to drive away, but then come down in price. It’s a small victory for me, but mildly embarassing for him.
Sure enough, as we pull into traffic, he explains that he agreed to such an “abnormally low” fare because I’m his first customer of the day. Telling me this is a way of “saving face,” as if the matter were out of his hands. Many Chinese business people believe it’s important to sell to the first customer of the day. This is no secret. In fact, I’ve known Chinese to do their shopping first thing in the morning, hitting each shop as it opens, then viciously haggling every price down to rock bottom.
But, as with many Chinese beliefs, I see a common sense behind it. Consider, for example, a morning where everything goes badly. On your way to work you hit heavy traffic, just miss the elevator, then spill mocha latte all over your suede shoes. Now, consider how differently you’d face that same morning if you’d started it by selling your crappy old computer for $800 to some fool who didn’t know any better.
We drive on. The driver also tells me that, at 800 NT, he’s making no profit. Gas is so expensive, these days. He’s testing me, employing the dreaded “guilt offense,” found throughout Asia. He’s already got his 800, but perhaps the sentimental, smiling American will give a large tip.
Recognize the guilt offense. Be prepared and stay strong. Don’t let the invaders past your perimeter. Just because you won the initial battle and settled on a price doesn’t mean the merchant will stop trying. What else is he going to do, concentrate on his driving?
But these petty Jedi mind tricks have no effect on me. I’m Jabba the Hut and he’s Priness Leah in a bejeweled bikini.
But if needed, I’m quite quite prepared to counter the guilt offense with a “self-deprecation defence.” I’ll say, “I’m very, very cheap.” It’s like guilt anti-venom, especially since, in many cases, I am being very cheap. On more than one occasion I’ve spent twenty minutes haggling over three rupees. Call it sticking to my priciples.
And if that fails, I’ll say “I’m a difficult, horrible person. Completely dead inside.” And they think I’m joking.
The cab smells nice; clean, carmel-colored leather seats; pleasant music at an unobtrusive volume, and magazines tucked into pockets in the backs of the driver and passenger seats, like an airplane. Of course, no cab driver is going to spend money on magazines; they’re actually clothing catalogs. I read the women’s lingerie section for a bit then stare out the window and reflect on my good times in Taiwan.
This morning’s taxi negotiation was typical, an opportunity to interact. I’d have been disappointed if it had gone any other way.