The Uber ride from Hell
I had just left the doctor's office with my mother. We both had appointments. I was officially diagnosed with high blood pressure, a gift from my father. Mom was prescribed medications for about 27 different things. We ordered an Uber, which arrived in under three minutes and cost less than five dollars. And those, my dear friend, were the only two good things about getting an Uber in Brazil that day.
We got into the backseat. I clicked on my seatbelt, as I always do. My mom looked at me and laughed. "You're really European now," she said, not as a compliment. "This is Brazil. We don't need seat belts in the backseat here."
That mockery would soon come back to haunt her.
The driver took off into the chaotic traffic of Belo Horizonte, my hometown. He cranked the radio up to maximum volume. This is standard. Every Uber in Brazil plays music loud enough to shake your bones. And it's never good. It's either gospel (not of the good kind) or sertanejo, a Brazilian version of country music, but somehow much, much worse. In Brazil, we have this thing called Zezé di Camargo, an artist who has been singing the same song for the past 45 years, and people just don't notice—a hit in 9 out of 10 Uber rides.
Today's driver? He was playing something else. Still too loud, but… tolerable. No trace of Zezé! I thought we'd lucked out.
I was wrong.
Our driver navigated the streets like a man possessed, squeezing into gaps that didn't exist, swerving, braking, and accelerating. It was like being on a roller coaster built by someone who hates you. My mom grabbed my hand and squeezed it so hard that I thought she might break a bone.
"Calm down," she whispered to the driver. He couldn't hear a word. He was in his own world.
Then, it happened.
At a red light, he cut off another car so aggressively that they nearly crashed. The other driver, now right by my window, stared at him with that look, the universal look of you want to go?
Our driver's reaction was completely unexpected. He reached under his seat and pulled out a knife. Not a small one. A massive, Crocodile Dundee-level blade. He held it up like a trophy.
"Wanna talk?!" he shouted.
My mom's hand was now piercing through mine. Her face had gone so pale it was glowing.
The light turned green.
We took off again, faster, angrier, wilder. The knife was still in the driver's hand, now waved around as part of his monologue.
I tried to calm him down with some small talk. "Self-defense, huh?" I said.
He lit up. For the rest of the ride, he shared tales of his Uber adventures, all of which featured some violent incident, and the display of his magical knife apparently solved all of them.
We finally arrived at our destination, feeling a wave of relief wash over us.
Before we left the car, he looked at us and said, "You should meet my brother. His knife is double the size of mine."
And then he sped off into the night.
My mom's face, still glowing from sheer panic, lit our path home.
And I, feeling a mix of reassurance from survival and an adrenaline rush, did the only thing a responsible citizen could do.
I opened the Uber app and gave that man his well-deserved five stars.
Sure, he traumatized my mother and almost got us killed in a variety of ways. But not for a second did he play Zezé di Camargo.
Rodrigo Bressane
Belo Horizonte, Brazil
Where to find me: bento.me/bressane