Kinshasa-esque

Its been a long time since I had a good traffic story. The roads just don't run that way here in Abidjan, and maybe I spend a bit less time in a car as well. The roads are so well organized here that I have even caught myself telling a taxi driver to be more cautious (or whatever he interprets from my impassioned- "S'il vous plait!")

Today however I have a bona fide traffic story to share. We were on our way to see Mohamed, who has been in the hospital with a nasty case of malaria that won't seem to go away. The clinic is downtown and costs a billion dollars to get to. The commute, which might be short in my own car, feels long in a cab.

Our driver was swiftly speeding there when a cop on a motorcycle turned his bike to place it in front of us, thereby blocking our path. He got off the bike, came to the window, grabbed  the drivers license and then sped off. The taxi followed suit and pulled over where indicated. The driver got out of the vehicle and went to meet the officer.  (On our way home a different taxi driver was listening to a series on the radio that was presenting satire on this very arrangement. I hadn't ever really considered the difference between here and Europe or the US, where the police approach the vehicle. Here, you  must approach the cop. mal garée ou quoi.)

Some exchange took place and before long we were speeding off again. But then, events took a  different turn. The same cop passed us and the driver sped up honking his horn as he passed the police officer. A few seconds later, he pulled off the side of the road and turned to go back to where the officer had stopped.

I should mention, at this point, that we were on a four lane thruway - the type with a concrete divider down the middle, very American, very unable to make a U-turn and be on the right side of the road. When I say he turned around, I mean he turned around into oncoming traffic and sped towards the police officer on the wrong side of the road- with 3 lanes of traffic coming at us. Just like Kinshasa except not really because Kinshasa doesn't even have 4 lane highways (that small stretch on the way to the airport perhaps.) The most you could see coming at you directly is one car in the wrong lane,with maybe a line behind it, but not usually. Usually it's one or two rogue drivers.

In this case, we were the rogue driver and there was a whole battalion of cars coming our way. The story doesn't end there, naturally. We pulled up alongside the cop and the driver got out. He paid 2000franc, received a receipt with official looking stamp and his permit.

I asked him what the infraction was and he said the police officer informed him he should have turned with the light, back at the intersection, and not whatever shortcut he apparently took.

"But it's ok you  drove the wrong way down the road just now? He didn't say anything about that?"

"Oh, no," he laughed. "That's nothing, but he,  he is a voleur. He wanted 2000 for my permit . Voleur." And he shook his head while I marveled at the logic of it all.

year of the taxi

I've taken more taxis in these past few weeks than in all my years here in Congo. Despite the numerous warnings, I enjoy the taxis. I like learning the calls that will get me where I want to go and being ushered into waiting cars and buses. I find simple pleasure in the way the city streets pass outside my window and the gentle brush of a person sitting next to me. I like the interaction between passengers- a quick 'bonsoir' or passing small talk. The buses offer the most opportunity for conversation. We share the waiting and the heat.

My trip today was somehow especially  sweet. I went to pick up Mohamed at a friend's house. Getting there was quick and easy. The way back meant traffic and detours were against us. Mohamed was a pleasant walking partner. Even on the street, people talk to us.

We caught a bus in Kintambo and found ourselves in the way back. Mohamed was worried about how we would get out and whether or not we would see our stop in time. A man sitting next to us called him 'our little Congolese brother.' I've learned to enlist the aid of other passengers when I want to get out. They usually speak more French than the drivers and are willing to be louder than I. As I stepped around a leg and over a seat, one man said, "If you find this isn't where you want to be, just get back in." I found them words of comfort and caring. Like he knew I would be too hesitant to get back in if I found myself ill placed. But I am bolder here in Congo. And as I learn my way around the streets by foot I worry less about where I land.

I appreciate these interactions. They help me see a side of Congo I could love. They help my patience grow and make me feel connected. Enlightenment from a taxi ride.