Don’t get me wrong: what follows is really just an ode to that plucky marvel of Megan’s transportation of choice in this city: the taxi…..
Nature’s first green is gold,
You can see it on the horizon, coming into view like a sunrise quickly trading aesthetic appeal for bland utility as it departs the horizon. Unlike the sun however, its toubab radar is in acquisition mode and the car is now full speed ahead and beeping at you for even attempting to use your own to legs for walking in this city. I hope its brakes are working.
Her hardest hue to hold.
Even the very newest taxis show illogical signs of wear and tear. I mean, look at the photo I took of this backseat interior door. I fail to comprehend how the plastic liner of the handle has disappeared. Taxis roaming this city bring new meaning to the axiom “new cars depreciate like sin as soon as they are driven off the dealer’s lot”.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
And when I say flower, I mean any of the “modifications” made pour le rendre un peu plus joli (that is, make it prettier):
But only so an hour.
Such beauty hardly belies reality. It’s apparent as soon as you lean in for a closer look- or get in the back seat, in my case.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
Yes, decay of these cars is a long, slow process. I’m half waiting for a taximan to ask me why I’m surreptitiously photographing his car as I sit in the backseat. When that day arrives I fully expect him to take offense at my desire to document his ability to accomplish the impossible: that is make a hunk of rolling scrap metal continue to run long after its expiration date.
So Eden sank to grief,
When you step back, you realize it’s kind of sad that you have chalked up your transportation experience as victorious due to any of these factors: 1) you weren’t ripped off an extra 40 cents fare because you’re a toubab 2) you weren’t asked if you had a husband 3) the interior door had both a functioning door handle and a window opener.
So dawn goes down to day.
Once committed to a fare and hence a captive audience, you can only hope that the prayer beads and stickers of various spiritual leaders will protect you and your driver from the other rolling death traps on the road.
Nothing gold can stay.
Yes, it’s a sad day when I use fine poetry as a parallel to illustrate my dusty taxi rides, but hey- I’m not the first one to bastardize Frost’s work. I think of this poem every time I step outside and look around at my surroundings. It’s not a question of better or worse- it’s just how things evolve here. The sooner you accept this reality, the sooner you can get on with some real local fun: having contests with yourself to try to find (and ride in) the absolute worst taxi in Dakar.
