Taxis: A World of Their Own

So you’re standing or sitting by the side of the road, or if you’re lucky enough, as I am, to have an actual bus shelter to sit under, you’re chillin’ there. It’s probably sunny outside, but maybe it’s rainy or breezy or cold. All around you, it’s serene. Cows, goats, donkeys and sheep make their perspective animal noises on their way to the fields as the herd boys grunt and occasionally throw stones at them to keep them in line, skinny dogs following closely behind. Birds are chirping, and once in awhile you wonder what particular bird is making that particular sound, or marvel at a new sound you hadn’t noticed before. People call to others from far away, and you watch the boys who sometimes use the bus shelter as their play area sit and play a game with stones. The world is doing what it does and you’re just happy to be a part of it, a witness to it all.

And then it comes. Sometimes slowly and steadily, like an old dog waking up from a good dream, and sometimes rapidly, barreling around the bends in the road, semi-rusted metal clanging and swishing through the breeze. 

Either way, your taxi is here. It’s a small mini-bus, sometimes brightly painted and sometimes plain white or silver, and it’s here to take you where you need to go.

Immediately upon ducking down to enter and, most days, greeting the other passengers, it’s clear that you’ve entered a world apart from the quiet one you just left. Most often, loud music assaults your senses as soon as you duck down to enter, serving as your welcome to this traveling state of affairs. On the good days it’s a repetitive South African house beat or even American pop and R&B from the nineties, but more often than not it’s famu, the national music of Lesotho. It consists of accordians and deep voiced bo-ntate (men) singing what I’ve learned is something of a life story in the space of a song. Some of it is okay, but on some tracks the singing is more yelling than anything, and recordings of babies crying and cows mooing blare over the music and yelling in the background, and it all sort of sounds like a chorus from hell. On Sundays it’s gospel.

I sometimes think how funny it would be if all new taxi drivers were in fact handed their own famu flash drives, because the more taxi’s I ride the more I notice how pretty much everyone across the country has the same songs blaring.

So you’re settled in your seat, which if you know what’s best for you is by a window. For reasons that I have yet to understand and maybe never will, Basotho generally do not like wind or fresh air blowing on the taxis. They would prefer to sit and sweat than feel cool air, and it’s pretty unbearable to be in there without an open window, particularly if you have a long way to go. Most people will oblige if you ask them to open the window just a hair, but grudgingly. Best to be the window operator yourself, if possible.

And then you sit and bear witness to any of the myriad things that may occur: Sometimes people will stare at you and sometimes they won’t. Sometimes they’ll take a friendly interest in you and start a conversation that by now you can say in Sesotho in your sleep about where you come from, why you’re here, where you’re going, and how Lesotho is treating you, and sometimes they won’t. My answers range in depth depending on my mood and the person asking, but when I am more generous with my answers I’ve had some interesting conversations with people. One time a chubby bespectacled man who looked to be in his early thirties, wearing a baby blue polar fleece GAP hoodie started talking to me, and I learned that he’s traveled to the U.S. and to Europe, that he has his PH.D and is working on his doctorate, all of which are highly unusual for a masotho.

I’ve seen boxes that are as tall as me, filled to the brim with loaves of bread, explode as the conductor pulled it off the taxi, sending bread raining down on everyone inside. I’ve seen conductors, most often skinny bo-ntate, play peek-a-boo with a passengers’ baby for the entire ride, in a heartwarming display of love for babies that I’ve noticed many men have here. Often, a real social butterfly, man or woman, will board and start a loud conversation with whoever they happen to sit next to, whether they know them or not, gesticulating hugely and starting a conversation that most everyone on the taxi is responding to and has become a part of in no time. I often simultaneously laugh and shake my head at the sheer amount of people and things that conductors will cram into one vehicle: Huge bags of rice and maize snacks (cheapo Cheetos) that people will re-bag to sell in their own villages. Crates of veggies and milk, suitcases and even animals. It’s kind of incredible.

At some point, the conductor will say “lefa”, or some equivalent that means it’s time to fork over your payment. People in the very back will pass their money to the people sitting in front to give to the conductor, and usually everyone is given their exact change before they get off. If not, the conductor has no change at that moment, and will run to the nearest shop or vendor when you exit to get your change from someone else. It’s no cause for worry when a vendor runs away with your money here; it only means they’re getting change.

It’s extremely likely that you’ll be squeezed in next to a very fat mme (woman) who will undoubtedly refuse to stand up to let you pass when it’s your stop. She will instead lift up her legs to rest on the seat, and lean over as much as possible, leaving a whole four inches for you to squeeze by to exit. You can try to argue or reason or explain that you’re not skinny, but she’s made her decision, and she’s not budging. So you squeeze by, thank the conductor, get off the taxi, and make your way into the world.

(This one goes out to the one and only Alex Wiles, with whom I’ve ridden many a bus, subway, el and trolley with, and with whom I talked to this week for the first time since coming here.)