The Art of Taxi-ing

It’s a game I’ve learned, the memorized progression of action to successfully taxi in Dakar. Wait for the ostentatious yellow to tow in at your feet. At the open window on the passenger’s side, lean in, widen eyes and dive into the verbal tennis match: Salaamaalekum, maalekumsalaam. Na nga def? Maangi fi rek*, chanted mechanically like a knee-jerk or the song Mother always sang, now a memory ingrained. Continue: Yaangi nos? Yaangi ci jamm?* And the taxi man might smile, appreciative of your efforts or amused by your bad pronunciation. Now is time to deliver the destination name, stare at the driver, who glares ahead without expression. You prod, ask, vous le connaissez? He’ll say the starting price. You’ll jump back from the window, friendly demeanor evaporated on the tar heat, aghast. Now’s the high-pitched haggling, and your insistence: Jangkat laa. Amuma xaalis!* He’ll shake his head, you scowl again. You play hard to get. Lean away from the window, squint into the sun like a cowboy in an old Western, stoic and strong: Ce n’est pas grave. Une autre va venir. Another will come. Start to wander away, and he’ll wave you in, wordlessly affirming that you’ve won. If he looks angry, it’s because you’re paying the price everyone else pays. After the first block, his displeasure will dissipate when he remembers that a young, reasonably attractive toubab woman is sitting in his back seat. He’ll glance into his rearview mirror at you. Donc, an nga jekker?* Full speed ahead into the tangled maze of Dakar's ridged cul-de-sacs and freeways.

*Hello! How are you doing? I'm here only.
*Are you doing well? You are in peace?
*I'm a student. I don't have money!
*You have a husband?