What Ride Share Drivers Share
It’s a lot more than I thought.
Photo: Getty images, Composite: James Nakamura
I’m sitting in the back of an Uber watching the city glide by at night. This one, like most Ubers, is clean and air-conditioned, its radio tuned to soft music, the driver appearing lost in thought.
I ask if this is his primary gig. He says he’s training to be a boxer. He talks about his routine, his matches. Soon, he’s talking about nutrition. He hands me a business card. Turns out he’s a personal trainer and nutritionist too. The week before, another driver gave me his card, offering surf lessons at lesser-known breaks. A week before that, a driver handed me a memoir he’d written about his father.
Hustle culture. Uber drivers are typically moonlighters and go-getters, excited to talk about their pursuits. Often, they dive into their life challenges and what they’ve overcome. They’re from everywhere. One was from Vietnam, with a Caucasian father and memories of how difficult it was to grow up mixed-race in her country. She didn’t feel she belonged anywhere until she moved to Hawai‘i.
Another arrived from Taiwan, dismissive of the way Western media overblows the threat of China invading the island. Whenever threats are sounded, most people in Taiwan roll their eyes, he said. Another told me about his polyamorous lifestyle and the underground clubs that serve as havens for S&M parties, drugs and secret societies.
Still another driver was a lively middle-aged man from Yamanashi Prefecture in Japan. He had married a woman from Hawai‘i, then moved to O‘ahu. He had harsh opinions about his home country, spoke of the weakness in the people and the unforgiving nature of its culture, reasons enough to leave, he said.
He then went deeper and reflected on an inherent sadness in his country. He grew up on a farm near the notorious Aokigahara Forest, also known as the Suicide Forest because it’s where so many have gone to end their lives. He remembers seeing cleanup teams venturing into the shrouded canopy, marking their paths with rope. By this point in his story, a hard veil of rain had smeared the car’s windshield, beating on the glass. Visions of a haunted forest hiding lost souls, with ropes tied around branches, filled the Tesla.
Occasionally, drivers reveal their politics, launching into tirades. One woman told me cars can run on tap water with a few engine modifications, but the government has suppressed the information. I asked why she hadn’t modified her Uber. She said it would severely shorten the car’s lifespan. I nodded, weighing the trade-offs, when she switched topics and claimed that COVID-19 was a hoax and vaccines were dangerous. She told me her nurse friends sometimes switched vaccines with saline without patients knowing, saying they were being protected from bad medicine. The car grew silent.
Despite the darker moments, I look forward to these conversations, surprised at how open drivers are with random passengers. I don’t debate or argue, regardless of what they share. I just listen, thank them when the rides end, and wish them Godspeed.
James Nakamura is the creative director of HONOLULU Magazine.
