Take Alex, a 30-something Russian immigrant I met last week. He recalled with disgust the corruption which his family had to cope with in Moscow during the Soviet-era. 'Nothing would happen unless you paid a bribe,' he said. 'But things are better now. If you work, you can make money. I'm thinking of going back.'

Tragedy shadows the past of many of the men. A Greek Cypriot I spoke to came close to tears when he recalled the atrocities he had witnessed when his island was invaded by Turkey. He took to the hills, leading a small band of resistance fighters, before fleeing for good.

Working long hours for modest pay, most drivers seem more than happy to break up the monotony by talking about their past. And it is even better if you know a little bit about their country.

An Eritrean I chatted to a few days ago was astonished to learn that I had heard of his homeland, let alone its capital, Asmara.

Lebanese drivers suddenly become much friendlier when I tell them my wife is of Lebanese-Armenian origin, and fondly recall the golden days of Beirut before the civil war reduced it to rubble.

The cheeriest cabbie I have ever met was a Bangladeshi who drove me home from the airport on Monday. He had gained an economics degree from Dhaka University, but the qualification was not recognised in Australia, and he found himself working in a factory.

Then he got a job as a barman at a casino, but was sacked for serving a drink to a woman who was already drunk. Finally, he became a taxi driver, got married, and has just had a baby boy, whom he has given the distinctly un-Bengali name of Eric. 'Sir, I am very happy,' he said. 'I like my life very much.'

Multiculturalism is one of those dry, boredom-inducing pieces of jargon beloved of Australian government ministers, think-tanks and editorial writers. To see what it means in practice, just hail a cab in Sydney. You never know where you may end up.