There is only one topic to discuss with London black cab drivers these days and it is the seemingly unstoppable rise of Uber – the app-based, global taxi company that operates in 58 countries and 300 cities worldwide via a fleet of freelance chauffeurs – and the effect it’s having on their livelihood.
The main gripe is that Uber is not subject to the same strict regulation as black cabs and their drivers and the fear is that the free market will win out, pushing the traditional London taxi closer to extinction. “Cabbies” have to sit for “The Knowledge”, a mind-bending exam on London’s roads that takes years to prepare for and which many drivers believe should be given degree status.
“With an Uber car, you’ve no idea who’s driving you or even if they’re insured,” a cabbie straight out of central casting assured me the other day. “The company also has some very smart tax lawyers, I can tell you,” he added. “I blame [London mayor] Boris [Johnson]. He’s got more fiddles than the London Philharmonic, that man.” I would wager that London cabbies are the best taxi drivers in the world; just travel a few blocks in a New York cab and you will see what I mean.
Beirut is one of Uber’s 300 cities but, unlike London, its licensed taxis can be death traps, so Uber is good news for the Lebanese capital, being yet another global brand to help normalise Lebanon’s often shaky image. It can also offer job opportunities to anyone with a decent car in a rapidly shrinking job market.
There has already been a ripple effect. The cult of Uber has, I would wager, inspired the dozens of private taxi companies to follow a similar path. The Charlie Group, which owns the ubiquitous Charlie Taxi, has announced a US$3 million expansion programme, which will include the introduction of long overdue metered cabs in Beirut – charging $1 per kilometre – and branches in Dubai and Paris.
Moving from taxis to hotels, the latest trend in Lebanese tourism is the bijou guesthouse. Dozens of tastefully appointed bed and breakfasts offering eco and gastro-tourism getaways, are popping up in coastal and mountain villages, and leading the charge is Kamal Mouzawak, the capo dei capi of Lebanon's foodie culture and the brains behind Tawlet, the Lebanese home cooking kitchen, which recently came eighth in Monocle magazine's Top 50 restaurants in the world.
Never one to sit still, Mr Mouzawak has launched Beit, or “House”, a project in which he hopes to convince “Lebanese city dwellers … to leave their urban setting to [sic] the rural areas of Lebanon. By restoring old Lebanese houses into guest homes, [he hopes] to support the survival of Lebanon’s architectural heritage”.
It is a movement for which Lebanon has been crying out for almost a quarter of a century, but with little state support it has been unable to achieve any traction. Successive tourism ministers have made big noises about the necessity to target the more informed traveller by offering niche tourism – religious and heritage, as well as eco and gastro – but all efforts have been channelled down the path of least resistance by backing initiatives catering to Arab tourists.
All this should bode well for the tourist season, but nobody is predicting a bumper season as long as the country groans under a refugee crisis and ongoing security concerns. There is also the ticklish matter of 25 years of environmental neglect and infrastructure mismanagement. Last week, an estimated 20,000 tonnes of Beirut rubbish went uncollected as the government was unable to find a new suitable landfill for the capital’s trash. Sukleen, the waste removal company charged with keeping much of the country clean, argued it couldn’t collect it if it had nowhere to put it.
A major public health crisis loomed, with waste and rotting food still piling up on street corners, in some cases covering cars unfortunate enough to be parked too close to the skip. But on Sunday evening the dustmen resumed work after a new landfill was found at an “undisclosed location”. Nonetheless, it is a cruel irony that, while the private sector is trying its best to scrub up, the state appears hell-bent on butchering its dreams at any opportunity.
Michael Karam is a freelance writer who lives between Beirut and Brighton.
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