Adam cannot afford to say no. Unlike most drivers of Beirut’s “servees” – shared taxis, the most common form of public transport in Lebanon's capital – he picks up almost anyone looking for a ride, even if it is for less than the set rate.
“A lot of customers can’t afford the fare, so they offer 200,000 lira ($2.20) or less,” he told The National as he drove downtown. “People won’t ride if the price is too high.”
His need to pick up every commuter is also driven by growing competition from the cheaper motorcycle taxis, commonly called “moto-taxis”, that more people are turning to as they endure a prolonged economic crisis now in its seventh year.
Beirut’s servees drivers raised their fares from 200,000 to 300,000 lira after the government imposed a fuel tax in February, only nine days before the Iran war began. Fuel prices have nearly doubled since, according to the Syndicate of Gas Station Owners, as the war disrupted shipments from Gulf producers.
The servees drivers now charge “as they see fit”, according to Zainab, who spoke to The National after dismounting a motorcycle taxi that she had booked through a ride-share app. The journey from her neighbourhood in Ras Al Nabaa to Jisr Al Wati cost her 200,000 lira, she said – “cheaper and faster than flagging a taxi in the street and then haggling with a chauffeur”.
Ten years ago, it would have been almost unthinkable for a woman to ride on the back of a motorcycle with a strange man. But Lebanon's economic collapse has made financial necessity a priority over social norms.
The crisis, which began in 2019 and which the World Bank has described as among the worst in modern history, has left most of the population struggling. Lebanese depositors were locked out of their savings and the national currency lost more than 98 per cent of its value against the US dollar, eroding salaries and severely diminishing purchasing power.
That, combined with the higher fuel prices caused by the Iran war, have made traditional taxis increasingly unaffordable in a country where the monthly minimum wage is only $300.
Meanwhile, motorcycles have come to dominate the streets of Beirut, with imports surging as commuters seek cheaper alternatives to cars and conventional taxis.
Even car owners are choosing to forgo driving and take motorcycle taxis.
“I used to fill up my car for $45. Now it costs almost $90 to $100, or sometimes even more. So we've started turning to slightly cheaper options,” said Moussa, a paramedic in his 30s who took a motorcycle taxi to a doctor’s appointment in Clemenceau, a busy Beirut neighbourhood notorious for its traffic gridlock.
Moussa said he hails motorcycle rides by sending his pickup location to a “dispatcher” on a WhatsApp group.
Motorcycle taxis “are cheaper and more economical considering how much petrol prices have risen recently. Everyone is trying to save money,” he said.
More than a dozen servees drivers interviewed by The National voiced frustration over dwindling passenger numbers, as increasing numbers of commuters like Zainab and Moussa turn to motorcycle taxis, or cheaper but slower alternatives such as vans and buses.
Adam, who drives a Nissan Sunny – known for its fuel efficiency – shrugged. “It’s why I take everyone. I can’t afford to pick and choose. But at the same time it’s tough, and sometimes after hours of working I barely break even.”
And motorcycle taxis are not the only players in Beirut's informal transport market. There are also the “white-plate” taxis – private cars operating as taxis through ride-hailing apps and WhatsApp groups.
A red number plate, which serves as the licence to operate a taxi, costs about $16,000 in Lebanon. Along with the cost of the vehicle itself, this represents a significant upfront investment. Some drivers rent a licensed taxi and pay the owner about $20 a day. With petrol prices so high, drivers say they cannot afford to lower their fares.
“Someone with a cheap motorcycle comes along, picks up passengers and drives off like he’s a taxi. It’s not safe. It's not legal. If there's an accident, there's no insurance or anything,” said Ibrahim, a taxi driver parked at the Cola intersection as he waited for customers. He accused motorcycle taxi operators of competing without the licensing and insurance requirements imposed on conventional taxi drivers.
Beirut taxi driver
“Our cars cost money. We have to repair them, we work hard and we still can't make ends meet. Motorcycles are our biggest [competition].”
But Ibrahim also recognised the financial pressures driving passengers to cheaper alternatives. While some servees drivers have started charging 400,000 lira or more per journey to compensate for rising fuel prices, he said he has continued to charge 300,000.
“We're being considerate of the public,” he said. “We also can't raise fares for passengers because everyone's situation is difficult.”
Other taxi drivers, unable to deny the economic reality, have simply decided to join the motorcycle phenomenon.
By day, Wael ferries commuters around Beirut on a motorcycle. At night, he switches to his licensed taxi. His motorcycle uses less petrol, is easier to manoeuvre through daytime traffic and allows him to complete more trips in less time – meaning a higher profit. At night, lighter traffic, airport runs and Beirut’s nightlife make driving a taxi more feasible.
“Everyone with a motorcycle now thinks it’s a fast and easy way to make money,” Wael told The National. He belongs to two WhatsApp groups that co-ordinate motorcycle taxi rides, each with more than 350 riders. He said the growing competition has taken a major toll on conventional taxis.
“I’d be making a lot more money as a taxi driver if it weren’t for the motorcycle competition. They’re taking half our business,” he said.
“But I don’t think they’re the problem. It’s the state, which has done nothing to regulate the taxi-motos or fix the economy. People are turning to motorcycles because they have to, not because they want to endanger themselves.”
The dangers are clear to see. Motorcycles weave around potholes and through Beirut's notoriously chaotic traffic unpredictably, rarely a helmet in sight, and often pass through red lights. Beyond the occasional crackdown on unregistered motorcycles, Lebanon’s government has done little to regulate the growth of the informal motorcycle taxi industry.
Asaad, another motorcycle taxi operator, thinks state regulation would be the best possible outcome for the moto-taxi phenomenon. “Because motorcycle taxis aren’t going away. They're the future,” he said.
