«Don’t come out until I negotiate the price. If they see that you are white, they will charge you double,” they assure the visitor. He waits at the bar where they have eaten. Once the rate has been adjusted, they call him: “We have settled on 2,000 francs, don’t give him a cent more.” He leaves the premises, says goodbye to his friends and gets into the taxi. Say hello. The taxi driver looks at him. He makes a bad face, but doesn’t comment anything. Start up. You have to cross Bamako from end to end.
It’s hot. Only the driver’s window is open. The traveler tries to lower his. He can’t find any crank for it. While searching, he realizes that only the body remains of the car. You can see the structure of the doors, the metal of the roof. The dashboard is empty. The gear lever is a wooden stick with the gear ball embedded. A large Muslim rosary hangs from the rearview mirror. It seems a miracle that a vehicle like this works.
The customer comments that he would like to roll down the window. “You can’t,” is the driver’s response. The traveler jokes: “If I die of heat in your taxi, you already know where you have to leave my body.” The driver turns his head, looks at the passenger: “You’re not going to die. “No one has died in my taxi,” and he laughs. The joke gives him cause to talk. He distills a string of laments about how difficult it is to survive in Bamako as a taxi driver. The price of fuel, when available, rises every day, but if he increases the rates, customers refuse to pay. The children, the school, the food, the price of life. What is usual in these cases. You need to buy a new taxi because this one, as you can see, is on its last legs. He is also a mechanic and repairs the car day in and day out.
There is a big traffic jam on one of the avenues. After traveling a few meters, you can see a military checkpoint. They are frequent in a city fearful of terrorist attacks. The driver makes a sharp turn and enters the narrow streets of the market. He moves between stalls, almost touching the tin roofs that protect them from the strong sun. He avoids buyers, sellers with trays on their heads, cows, sheep, chickens… He doesn’t slow down. In the rearview mirror he must have seen his client’s shocked face. He laughs and assures her: “Don’t be afraid, I know what I’m doing.” The traveler no longer knows if the sweat running down his face is from the heat or from wondering why the taxi driver avoids the military.
False alarm. They reach their destination avoiding traffic jams. “It’s 5,000,” declares the taxi driver. “No, my friend told me there are 2,000.” «Yes, but he didn’t tell me that you were white, and white people have money. “You could help me.” Accept what was agreed and laugh again: “Okay. Take my phone number. If you need a taxi, call me, I’ll come right away to pick you up. “I treat you as a friend, not as a target.”
