Berkley Center

My first taste of Yaoundé was public transportation. There are no bus lines, train stations, or metro rails. Instead, there is the marvel of ingenuity that is the yellow taxi. As far as I can tell, the average taxi is originally from Europe, with the original European stickers left on, painted yellow, carefully repaired and reused for years, with phrases like “Air France” or “Manchester United” or “When the Lord is with us, who is against us?” (in French) decorating the back bumper. One morning my taxi might have huge Jesus stickers on the windows, the next day a very large Jay-Z face will be staring at me. I try to avoid the taxis with tinted windows and no door handles.

In Yaoundé, yellow taxis are shared, with three passengers in back and two in the front seat (there are also other types of taxis, the non-yellow ones, that fit more people). To catch a taxi to school, I stand on the side of the road with other commuters and as a taxi rolls by I shout out my destination and the price I’m willing to pay to get there. The taxi-man calculates if I’m on his way and if I’ve offered a good enough price. If he honks his horn or nods his head, I jump in, preferably in the back, as the front can be a tight squeeze.

I have the utmost respect for the taxi-man, who not only has a practical knowledge of supply and demand that outstrips many economics professors, but also basically knows some sort of landmark on every block of Yaoundé, because I only have to say “the white house” to get home. The equivalent level of knowledge of DC would permit me to say, “Tenleytown, the house with the blue door,” and the taxi-man would immediately know where I wanted to go.

Which is why I find myself, this Tuesday, coming home from school, squished into the corner of the back seat of a taxi with four other people: a man in a suit, another in a Raiders t-shirt and jeans, the third a mother taking her child to the doctor. In front, two women share the passenger’s seat as the driver meanders up a large hill toward a large traffic jam. We’ve already stopped once since I got in. A motorcyclist clipped the side mirror of the taxi, which prompted both drivers to pause to explain how guilty the other party was. The two women in the front seat began scolding the driver of the taxi, and he decided to continue on his way. The next incident involved a policeman pulling over the car in front of us, which prompted everyone in the taxi to either throw up their arms or shrug their shoulders, bitterly disparaging the policeman as a corrupt bandit. Apparently, it’s a clear sign the policeman was hustling the driver.

The man in the Raiders t-shirt turns to me and asks, “What do you think, are all Cameroonians frauds?” I’m not surprised by the question; I hear it a lot because I stick out here, and I reply, “You would know better than I would.” Somehow that seems to satisfy him, and he nods. But I think of the other taxis I’ve shared, filled with strangers eager to talk, where the taxi men, so quick to yell at motorcyclists and policemen, will go out of their way to help the little 4 and 5 year olds across the street in the morning, and where people will even pull out their phones and use their credit to provide music for the car during the long afternoon commutes through traffic.

I think the shared taxi is growing on me.