When we first arrive in the country, at midnight, our taxi literally needs to be pushed and kick-started. It sputters its way into the slum -- or the middle class neighborhood (who can tell the difference here?) -- where our hotel is located, to the amusement and amazement of our family.
And thus sets the tone for most of the rides in Senegal. The taxi ride from Dakar up to Saint Louis involves a lot of peanuts. And something else that we think is peanuts but turns out to be bitter and inedible. By us. Our taxi driver loves them and downs them like, well, peanuts....
We can't ask our driver what he's eating, however, as he literally does not speak one word of French. After negotiating with a ragtag group, he's the one that gets in to the car to drive us -- 40,000CFA (about 60€ or $80) for a 3-4 hour ride up the coast.
Inexplicably, our driver keeps stopping by the side of the highway -- and not just for nuts, which we would understand. He keeps stopping by groups of people selling random things roadside and either picking up or dropping off tiny slips of paper. What could be so important yet fit on something a quarter the size of a Post-It note? It's baffling. He doesn't even necessarily hand the message over...just waves it out the window, lets it fall to the ground and drives off. It's a mystery. If there's anybody with knowledge about Senegal that can clear this up for us, please comment!
We're rather relieved he doesn't speak French, though, as the taxi driver that gets us from the Ile de Gorée ferry to the stand where we get in this long-distance taxi is so annoying that I can't stand him for one more minute. And that is before he very deliberately cheats us on our change, causing me to scream at him both in English and French. I go so far as to kick his car door, though I can't tell if it adds any dents because it's already so pockmarked, who can tell if there's one more?
My outburst embarrasses and horrifies Anthony, and slightly frightens the girls. So I am sure this makes me both a crazy hothead and a horrible mother, but mostly what I feel is justified and satisfied. And, frankly, a little proud of myself for swearing in French. It entertains the hell out of the local taxi driver, crowd, too.
The rest of our trip to Saint Louis passes without anger or incident, but that's not to say it's totally boring. Besides the mystery mini-notes, you just never know what you'll see through the cracked windshield of your shitty Senegalese taxi. Will you be sharing the road with cows?
Will you suddenly stop in the middle of the highway, where there's a speedbump, in order to buy roadside melons?
What about the guys hanging on at roughly 50mph to the van in front of you? Will they wave as you pass?
Well, if all else fails, you can at least buy a bra from the roving bra-cart.
And thus sets the tone for most of the rides in Senegal. The taxi ride from Dakar up to Saint Louis involves a lot of peanuts. And something else that we think is peanuts but turns out to be bitter and inedible. By us. Our taxi driver loves them and downs them like, well, peanuts....
We can't ask our driver what he's eating, however, as he literally does not speak one word of French. After negotiating with a ragtag group, he's the one that gets in to the car to drive us -- 40,000CFA (about 60€ or $80) for a 3-4 hour ride up the coast.
Inexplicably, our driver keeps stopping by the side of the highway -- and not just for nuts, which we would understand. He keeps stopping by groups of people selling random things roadside and either picking up or dropping off tiny slips of paper. What could be so important yet fit on something a quarter the size of a Post-It note? It's baffling. He doesn't even necessarily hand the message over...just waves it out the window, lets it fall to the ground and drives off. It's a mystery. If there's anybody with knowledge about Senegal that can clear this up for us, please comment!
We're rather relieved he doesn't speak French, though, as the taxi driver that gets us from the Ile de Gorée ferry to the stand where we get in this long-distance taxi is so annoying that I can't stand him for one more minute. And that is before he very deliberately cheats us on our change, causing me to scream at him both in English and French. I go so far as to kick his car door, though I can't tell if it adds any dents because it's already so pockmarked, who can tell if there's one more?
My outburst embarrasses and horrifies Anthony, and slightly frightens the girls. So I am sure this makes me both a crazy hothead and a horrible mother, but mostly what I feel is justified and satisfied. And, frankly, a little proud of myself for swearing in French. It entertains the hell out of the local taxi driver, crowd, too.
The rest of our trip to Saint Louis passes without anger or incident, but that's not to say it's totally boring. Besides the mystery mini-notes, you just never know what you'll see through the cracked windshield of your shitty Senegalese taxi. Will you be sharing the road with cows?
Will you suddenly stop in the middle of the highway, where there's a speedbump, in order to buy roadside melons?
What about the guys hanging on at roughly 50mph to the van in front of you? Will they wave as you pass?
Well, if all else fails, you can at least buy a bra from the roving bra-cart.
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