My wizened 86-year-old taxi driver keeps looking at me, puzzled, in his rear-view mirror, all the while weaving through the craziness of Bangkok traffic and managing not to hit anything. He is from China, has lived in Bangkok for 52 years, has a wife and son in China that he hasn’t seen for 52 years, “I no have money to go.” He lives in a $1 a night room, works from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. driving this taxi that doesn’t belong to him. And yes, he is 86.
“How old you are?” he asks, with his quizzical stare.
I meet his eyes in the mirror and smile at him: I will be 60 next year.
“You here alone?”
Yes.
We dodge a motorbike, a bus and a pedestrian. I am relaxed… sort of… I have this innate/inane/insane trust in the universe to take me safely where I need to be regardless of the mode of transport or the mental state of the driver.
He stares at me again, I stare at the traffic in the hope that he will get the message: eyes on the road, please!
“You almost 60?”
Yes.
“I no believe you. You beautiful.”
Thank you, it’s true. Born in 1953 makes me 60 next year.
We go back to weaving and glancing. I sit with pressed-on smile and mentally request the safe manoeuvring of this body to its destination—hopefully not its final one.
“I no believe you almost 60… You very beautiful.”
Thank you. (Pleaselookattheroad,please,please.)
“Tell me, just for me… tell me what is your secret.”
No secret, I just live.
“I no believe you. What do you do?” My heart lurches as he takes his hands off the steering wheel to circle his eyes with his gnarled fingers. “Your eyes, you no go to doctor to fix your eyes?”
No.
He shakes his head, eyes only partially on the road. I think this man has compound eyes as whatever he is looking at the road with certainly aren’t in the sockets normally nominated for the eyeball’s abode. “I no believe you. You have some trick, something you eat, the doctor he cut, the cream from the pharmacy.”
Nothing, I promise. I no go to doctor, I no have operation, I no use cream, I no use pills. I eat normally, I live normally, (and I put my life in the hands of 86-year-old taxi drivers whose eyes face backwards…)
“I no believe you. Tell me your secret, just for me. Tell me what you do.”
He now takes one hand off the wheel and puts his arm between the seats. We are now travelling one-armed and, from what I can tell, no-eyes on the road. “Look. Look difference your arm and mine. I am an old man. Look at your skin, look at mine.”
I hold my arm next to his—it really doesn’t look that different to me after the many years I have spent in the sun.
Hey, you are 86—that’s almost 30 years difference. A lot happens in 30 years. I am lucky, I have good parents, they also look young (explaining gene pools is beyond the language gap).
We go back to the silent staring in the mirror mode—his eyes the picture of confusion, mine simply smiling back at him. And I can see, this isn’t some normal make-the-tourist-feel-good talk, this man cannot keep his eyes off the mirror and thus me and thus not on the road. And he is really puzzled.
“I no believe you almost 60, I no believe. You very beautiful, no doctor cut, no pharmacy, no diet. Tell me, just for me, what is your secret.”
I look closely at this gentle, wrinkled, precious person who has been through so much in his life, and is uncomplaining, simply accepting.
I have beautiful heart. What you see is my heart.
“Ahh! You heart! Yes. You have beautiful heart. Now I believe you.”
And we go back to looking at each other in the rearview mirror. But now, the look is different. He still stares, I still smile; but the puzzlement is gone. There is a knowing in his eyes and the softest of smiles.
“You have beautiful heart. Now I believe you. Yes, now I believe you.”
