Oops

To get anywhere in Dakar, you have to take a taxi, a car rapide (truck turned minibus decorated with religious symbols and lots of color), an Ndiaga Ndiaye (ancient white Mercedes minibuses that are like car rapides but less interesting), or the bright blue Dakar Demm Dikk city buses. And with the exception of the city buses, each one of these vehicles is driven crazily through the streets of the city as the driver takes weird shortcuts onto sandy side streets or through parking lots, narrowly misses hitting other cars, stops just short of running over a pedestrian (or two, or three, or a whole crowd including babies and goats), and sometimes they drive on the sidewalk, if there is one.

But it was not until tonight that I have ever been in a vehicle where the crazy driving wasn’t controlled. Around 9, after seeing some friends’ art on display at the National Arts Village, a friend and I hailed a cab to head back to the boarding house for dinner (because we didn’t want Baye to be sad if we missed it) and after nearly having our feet run over by the driver, who was so appalled at the 2000 CFA we offered him that he screeched off without saying a word, we crossed two busy lanes of traffic in the dark and hailed a second taxi, the driver of which also overcharged us, but we were in a hurry to get home so we hopped in. Not two minutes later, our driver almost killed a policeman who was directing traffic, and, knowing full well that he was going to be arrested for it, fled the scene, lurching onto a side street (one of the sandy ones) in full police-chase mode, and I realized that we were in a dangerous situation. The car was literally out of control, but lucky for me, the streets in Dakar aren’t always well-maintained, especially the little roads that aren’t frequented by cars, so there was a foot-high rock in the middle of the road that our ever-so-courteous driver smacked right into, flinging us up in our seats but fortunately bringing the taxi to stop, albeit a loud, smoky, crunchy one. As soon as this happened, we got out, and my friend noticed the cab driver duck out and start sprinting away from the car (again with the not wanting to be arrested). We were instantly surrounded by a group of people, asking us what happened—to which I could only say, “He almost broke someone”—while a Senegalese woman patted my back and asked us if we were okay, where we lived, and told us to take a new taxi home.

The car, the front part crushed onto the rock and leaking oil, was surrounded by people, onlookers and a policeman, to which we asked if we had to give a statement or something, but he only looked at us concernedly—“You were in the car?!”—asked us if we were all right, said we could go home, and even helped us get another taxi back to our house.
Oh yeah, and the driver left all of his money in the car when he ran off.

So, in sum:

1. I was in a taxi in which I witnessed a crime and evasion of arrest.
2. Aside from bumping my elbow, I’m okay, and so is the friend I was with.
3. Thank god for that rock in the road, or who knows what this man would have done?
4. Yet another reminder that Senegalese people are nice, especially to toubabs who have just gotten into a car accident and as a result can’t find their French.
5. The driver probably didn’t have the proper documentation to drive a taxi, which would have made his arrest even worse, and which probably caused him to leave his earnings when he fled.
5. Next time I’m in a taxi/car rapide/Ndiaga Ndiaye driven by a crazy driver of the ordinary Senegalese variety, I’ll heave a sigh of relief.

I came to Senegal for an adventure, and I’d say that qualifies. I’m glad to be alive and writing about this in the past tense.