Cabbies, Though Still Wary, Find a Wider Comfort Zone

The office of Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki says the number of attacks in Baghdad has plummeted from 1,442 in April to 323 last month. But instead of official pronouncements, the cabbies rely more on friends, family members, fellow drivers and what some consider a sort of innate intuition about the roads.

"We call the taxi driver in Iraq a roving reporter," said Haider Abbas, the driver who was surprised by the bustle in Adhamiyah. "We know every single neighborhood, and we can read the minds and hearts of the people who hire us."

Cabdrivers still disguise their identities to pass through neighborhoods of the opposite sect. Omar Hussein Fadhil, a Sunni with a first name that clearly identifies his sect, said he takes passengers to every area of the city, but often pretends to be a Shiite to do so.

Fadhil carries a fake ID card bearing a Shiite name. He leaves cassette tapes with Shiite music in his car. And he follows the Shiite custom of tucking a piece of green fabric in his shirt pocket.

"Nothing can stop us from going into the streets and doing our jobs," said Fadhil, 22, a Karrada resident who is about to get married. "If we don't, how can we support our families?"

Cabbies gripe that the improved security situation also makes it harder to eke out a living. A growing number of Baghdad residents now feel comfortable driving their own cars around the city, obviating the need for taxis. The skyrocketing cost of fuel has made it harder to make ends meet. And high unemployment has led many young men to plop a yellow "TAXI" sign atop their vehicles, adding to the competition for passengers.

For taxi drivers who used to take passengers from Baghdad to Syria, the increased sense of security -- combined with strict new visa rules in Syria -- has stopped the exodus to the border, ending their source of income.

Muntasir Rasheed, 24, who worked for two years driving Iraqis to Damascus, said he is now unemployed. Almost no one is going to Syria anymore. The demand is so high in the reverse direction that $500 taxi rides from Damascus to Baghdad now cost $1,000, he said.

Not that it was easy for Rasheed to drive passengers across volatile Anbar province. He remembers how Sunni insurgents cut off the fingers of, and even killed, cabbies who dared to smoke cigarettes or listen to music in their cars.

He worried about being killed by the U.S. military, too. One night as he drove through the desert, it was so dark that he couldn't see an American Humvee sitting in the middle of the road. He got so close, Rasheed recalled, that soldiers shot his car three times. "I thought for sure I was going to die," he said.

Taxi driver Hassan Najih also had an unfortunate brush with U.S. soldiers. Najih's black Hyundai was parked on the street when a convoy passed, he said, breaking the car's windows and carving a huge gash in its right side.

On a quiet Friday morning, Najih spent 30 minutes driving his dilapidated taxi around Karrada before he found a passenger. Following Iraqi taxi protocol, he tooted his horn at two young men standing on the street to see if they needed a ride. They waved their hands to respond that they did, and Najih pulled over.

One of the passengers, a 25-year-old electrician named Ahmed Khalil, explained that he needed to go to a famous ice cream store nearby to meet a friend. The buddy had just returned from Syria, and Khalil and his friend couldn't wait to see him.

"May God grant you all health," Najih said before dropping them off. He charged them about $2 for a five-minute ride, which they gladly paid before hurrying out of the cab.

Then Najih pulled back onto the dusty streets of Baghdad, hoping he could safely find another fare and earn a few more dinars before night fell.

Special correspondents Zaid Sabah, Naseer Nouri and K.I. Ibrahim contributed to this report.