The most frequently asked question regarding taxis in Kinshasa is....how do you know which ones are taxis? Picking out the ones that are not taxis is oftentimes easier. Large SUV's, tinted windows, thick, solid tires. These are not usually signs of an African taxi. The taxi buses are a cinch....even when not painted in the traditional blue and yellow, they have people hanging their heads out the windows and the money guy leaning out the side door with a wad of francs carefully organized in his fist.
Cars come in all shapes, sizes and marks. Determining taxi from regular roadster can be challenging. The driver usually has one hand out the window making whichever hand signal identifies the area he covers. This is helpful in determining taxis from non-taxis. There also tends to be a lot of beeping involved, another helpful sign.
On Sundays I generally take a taxi to my dance class downtown. Sunday is a quiet day in Kinshasa and transport is relatively easy (or at least it has been so far.) The only sticky place is the road right outside the school gates. Sometimes it might be necessary to walk down to the corner and then down again to the larger road in order to find a cab. Usually this is not the case.
Today was a gray sky day in Kinshasa. It rained in the early morning hours, leaving the ground wet and the air cool. Several large cars flew past me- a sign that they are probably not a taxi, or at the very least, a full one. The street was empty. When another car came zooming by I held out my hand and waved it up and down, indicating I wanted to go to magasin, the Kintambo circle. The driver didn't exactly come to a screeching halt, but he did stop much further down the road and reversed back to where I was.
I noticed some boxes in the back window and a thought was born. A small thought that perhaps should have been given more attention. Taxis never have personal items- unless they belong to the passengers. The back door was locked, or at least it didn't open. This is not terribly uncommon in taxis. Usually the driver or an inside passenger will open it from the inside, in the case of broken door handles and other oddities that plague Kinshasa cabs. The car was empty, however, and so I sat in the front.
There are no telling clues in the inside of a cab. No meter, no name badge, no radio to dispatch. This car was decorated with flags on the windshield and stickers on the dashboard. Loud music played and I wondered. The thought was taking root. It's stereotypical to say that all Kinshasa taxis have cracked windshields, broken speedometers, fuel gauges permanently on empty and door panels ripped out exposing wires and other inner workings that lends a feeling of being inside a radio. Some taxis do have plush seats and handles to roll down the windows still attached.
The driver introduced himself and asked a few questions. Polite enough, though it can be difficult to be the receiver of a barrage of what feels like personal information. My name, where I work, where I live, what I am going to Kintambo for. I guess it passes for small talk. It was pleasant enough and when I asked him to drop me at the customary taxis area, he refused my money. "Have a nice Sunday," he said. Which is when I really knew it wasn't a taxi. He continued on down the boulevard.
Just when a few friends had left me feeling disappointed and losing faith in Congolese men and their ability to be truthful and loyal, someone drives by, offers me a ride, refuses my money- and doesn't ask for my phone number. A nice little addition to my Sunday, with a splash of perspective.
