Taxi Cab Confessions…. So yesterday I took a cab home. I was exhausted after a full day of work, a short workout at the gym and an hour of haggling with my two tailors. (I know my life is really hard, right?). After being rejected by two cabs – you have to waxale or bargain before getting in and if you ask for a price the driver finds ridiculous he will just drive off without a word – I finally found someone willing to accept my price (the equivalent of $2). Bargaining here is a ritualistic game of sorts. The driver will size you up based on appearance, accent, and company and test the waters by asking for something crazy. Then there is the back and forth and, finally, the moment of compromise. Most of the time there is much joking and teasing involved, which continues during the ride. Last night, as in most cases when I ride in a taxi by myself or with girlfriends, the second question the driver asked after ‘where are you going?’ was ‘are you married?’ As usual, my immediate response was a fervent ‘Yes.’ Most of the time taxi drivers don’t doubt this response, as I’ve learned to say it confidently without a note of humor or mischief in my voice. I even throw in the fact that my husband’s name is Azziz Ndao and that I’m going to meet him right now, for good measure. They seem genuinely pleased to know that I am ‘married’ to a Senegalese and many pleasant conversations on music, politics, etc.. follow. However last night the response I got to my ‘am naa jeker ba paree’ or ‘I already have a husband,’ was ‘yow, amuloo dara!’ or ‘you, you don’t have anything!’ (Though the Wolof version and the way it was hurled at me sounded a lot more accusatory). If this conversation had taken place in the US, I would have probably been really offended, but I’ve learned to take everything here with lots of sugar – a.k.a. a robust sense of humor. I laughed and tried to change the subject by commenting on how chilly the night air was. He shook his head disapprovingly and told me that this was further proof that I didn’t have a husband. Ha! - I thought - two can play this word game. ‘I’m cold now, but he is waiting for me at home where it is nice and warm.’ He sucked his teeth – clearly unconvinced. I was so determined to prove that I was someone’s wife that by the time I arrived home I had promised to introduce the driver to my make-believe husband. Of course it was easy to get out of this because the man didn’t believe me anyway…

This is a common dialogue in cabs here. But even back in the US, I’m used to having lively or interesting conversations with drivers in the bootleg Harlem cabs, usually driven by men from Senegal or Cote D’Ivoire. Plus, my Grandpa drives a cab in DC – so I’ve always been interested in learning about the backgrounds and stories of the drivers I meet. I’ve heard of cab drivers here being really rude and even threatening towards foreigners (especially other Africans, unfortunately). But maybe I’ve just been lucky, because I’ve never felt unsafe in these situations; the tone of conversations are always full of humor. I remember in another cab ride, Duma and I had fun convincing the young driver that we lived in a polygamous household and that we were, in fact, co-wives. This tickled him beyond expectations and he invited us to his house for lunch in the neighboring city of Thies. We ‘accepted’ the invitation with the sole clause that if we should come, our shared husband would come too.

Taxi rides are interesting in so many ways. For example, this morning on the way to work with Jeanne (another day of sleeping in and missing the bus), we were in a cab that had what looked like a real bird’s nest hanging over the dashboard from the rearview mirror. I’ve seen all manner of trinkets obstructing the view of drivers (baby shoes, framed pictures of religious leaders, fake birds…etc), but I must say that this was a first. But I guess everyone has their rituals and beliefs, right? I mean, whenever Jeanne and I see the herd of horned white cows that occasionally passes leisurely through our neighborhood in the mornings we believe that nothing can go wrong that day.

Okay, it would be dishonest of me to say that I have never felt unsafe in a taxi here. But those cases have all been because of the dilapidated state of the car itself, not the behavior of the driver. Most of Senegal’s taxis and public minibuses (called cars rapides) are probably around 30 years old. Not only does this mean that they are just really, really funky, it also means that bits and pieces are always breaking down or in need of repair. It is not uncommon for a taxi driver to have to reach back – very matter-of-factly – across the right backseat passenger to open the skeleton of a door using some resourceful rope-catch contraption, since the handle that was once there retired years ago. I’ve been in cabs that, when turning a corner at full speed, had a side door fly open – only cementing me fear of leaning on car doors. I spent the rest of the ride sitting in the middle of the backseat with my right arm outstretched, holding the door close. I am always the rushed person, late for one thing or another, who has to wait by the side of the highway while a taxi driver changes his flat tire, all the while assuring me ‘cinq minutes rekk’ or ‘only five minutes!’ The fact that many of the more dilapidated taxis have mini fire extinguishers mounted within the driver’s reach is not comforting at all.

The other day our friend, Gabe, told a funny taxi story. He said he was in a cab that, like many, had a large, spidery and very disconcerting crack in its windshield. What was great though was that the crack seemed to be held together by a collage of stickers featuring President Obama’s head. What better metaphor for our current economic situation, right? A 30-year-old, broke down, Senegalese taxi going at full speed, with a cracked windshield – all being held together by the precarious positioning of Obama!

A strange phenomenon occurs when bargaining. You suddenly forget that what you are bickering over is the equivalent of $1, which to me is something completely different than its value in the budget of the average Senegalese taxi driver. Sometimes I feel judgment and pressure from American friends (yes, Duma – I’ve seen the disapproving looks) when I seem to give in too easily in the bargaining ‘game.’ Granted, we are all on different budgets and have different priorities – but in the end we are all still much better off than the vast majority of the local population. I was shocked to discover the other day that the price to fill up a regular car with gas here is the equivalent of $100! No wonder drivers just up and drive away, without so much as a head shake, when you offer a price they think is too low!

***Wow – that was a real patchwork of taxi thoughts and stories that had been floating through my mind for a while. Hope it’s interesting! This entry (sorry it’s so long!) is dedicated to my Grandpa Cromer – rich with wisdom, humor and love.