"Does your meter work?!"

"No, sir."

Next cab.

"Does your meter work?!"

"No, sir."

Next cab.

"Does your meter work?!"

"No, sir."

No taxi driver wants to use his meter because some charitable government officials, who probably have a few cousins in the business, had established overblown fixed rates from the Manila airport to the various parts of the city - in the $15 to $20 range. One company controlled a monopoly in the departures area. I was asking in the arrivals. Any driver can bring trips to the airport and I wanted an independent operator. Next cab.

" Does your meter work?!"

No verbal response, just a tough-guy Clint Eastwood type of nod. I hopped in and we took off and down the ramp. Once we were under way, he still hadn't started his meter.

" Could you please turn your meter on."

He leaned to his right, unlatched the glove compartment, and calmly fished around. His fingers gripped something (I held my breath for the pistola) and came up with an imitation leather-clad book containing a jumble of papers with the apparent "official" rates inscribed on record.

" This is my meter."

" Turn your meter on or let me out!"

Muttering four-letter words in Tagalog, the language of the Philippines, he agreed. The rear passenger doors of Filipino taxis are rigged to a handle beside the driver. My presumed cabby-du-jour hammered the brakes, popped the door open, and silently looked over his right shoulder in unspoken solicitation for my feet to reacquaint themselves with the dusty concrete road.

Pulling the door shut, he made a U-turn in pursuit of inflated fare. I was satisfied; we had traveled far enough away from the terminal for me to flag down another taxi. Anyone coming along empty would be not one of the official bandits, but an also-ran of the Manila taxi fiefdom deadheading out and, naturally, looking for flags. I waved another cab down without delay.

" Does your meter work?" I wanted to know.

" Yes, sir."

" Will you use it?"

"Yes, yes, no problem."

I vaulted in and we peeled away.

" Where do you want to go, sir?"

" I want to go to Manila, Mabini Street."

" Yes, sir, Mabini Street."

We bumped along through some construction detours.

" Where are you from, sir?" he wanted to know.

" I'm from Canada. Can you turn your meter on?"

" Yes sir. From Canada. I have a cousin in Toronto."

Everyone I ever met in Asia had a cousin in Toronto.

" You pay extra for air-con, okay?" he continued.

" Pay extra for air-con?"

" Yes sir, surcharge."

" How much is air-con surcharge?"

" Five dollars U.S."

" What if you turn off the air-con and I just roll the window down?"

" No, no, sir, we cannot do that."

We turned onto a busy road. A taxi was parked against the curb.

" I'm not paying for air-con. Let me out - here, here is another taxi parked. Stop! STOP!"

Without a word, the cabby opened and closed my door and drove off into that carnage called traffic. I looked around for the possible maestro of this new, potential ride. The car didn't appear damaged or look abandoned; in fact, it was running. Twenty yards away, facing a busted-up fence, a guy was taking a leak. Twisting to see me representing hard currency, he popped junior back into his hiding place and sprinted over with a radioactive smile. His meter worked, his air-con didn't; I arrived on Mabini Street right on schedule and budget - under three dollars.

That morning was my release date from an eight-month sentence of teaching English in Taiwan where, this time, I had managed to save just under $11,000. I only knew a few things. First, I wanted to travel "à la carte"; there was no set menu. Each destination would be an item of my choosing. There would be no deadlines or bosses; no one calling me, needing me, or counting my money. Second, I sweated for that money and I wanted maximum bang for minimum buck. Third, I knew that whatever was in store, it was going to be good. Let’s go.