My house is about a three-minute walk from the main road, down a steep, rocky path. At the road, I can catch a taxi north towards the capital or south towards the King’s home. The taxi stop is a little dirt clearing right next to the high school volleyball court. There isn’t a designated sign that says taxi stop; you just have to know to wait there.
Because there are no true taxi stop signs, I figured that you could ask the driver to pull over whenever you needed to get out. I found out the hard way last weekend that this is not so.
Going into Maseru, I’m never quite sure where exactly the taxi is going to end up. Sometimes they drive right down the main road in town; in which case, I hop off whenever I feel like I’m close enough to the Peace Corps office (which is usually my first stop when I’m in town). Sometimes they drive straight into the taxi rank and stop the car. Last weekend, we were driving down the main road headed straight towards where I needed to be. Suddenly, the driver took a sharp left, and we were on a totally unfamiliar back road. I immediately tapped the conductor on the shoulder and told him I needed to get off, and he laughed and said that there wasn’t a stop. I didn’t know what to do; I was going to be completely lost. I think he noted the panic in my voice, because he said something to the driver in Sesotho, and they eventually pulled over. He asked if I needed to go to the police for some reason. I smiled and said no, and found my way back to the office.
A “taxi” in Lesotho is not at all like the yellow cabs we have back at home. It is an unmarked, usually broken-down, old white van. The kind of unmarked white van that your mother told you not to crawl into when you were a kid.
When you’re walking towards the road, if you’re lucky, a taxi will be coming along headed in the direction that you want to go. The “conductor”—a guy who sits in the passenger area of the van and collects the money—will hang half of his body out the window and shout at you, asking if you’re getting on. I still don’t understand how they can tell if a person is getting on or not. The potential passenger usually stares at the van for a minute or so, slowly walking toward the road, while the conductor keeps shouting at them. Eventually, the taxi will either pull over and wait or keep driving.
If the taxi is nearly empty, it will crawl along at literally 5mph, hoping to pick up more passengers along the way. It’s very frustrating, especially if you are in a hurry. The conductor and driver are constantly scanning the stretches of field along the road with their eagle eyes, looking for people hobbling towards the road. Sometimes, they will pull over and five minutes will pass before I can even see the passenger walking along.
Under these circumstances, you develop a sort of camaraderie with the other passengers in the taxi. You are all hoping to jam in as many people into the van as quickly as possible, just to get going to where you need to be. Even though I don’t speak Sesotho, I can usually understand what people are talking about inside the taxi. Everyone participates in this game of trying to pick up more passengers along the way. People will shout out “Someone over there, to the left!” or mumble “Oh no, she’s not getting on. Definitely not getting on.”
I stick out like a sore thumb on the local taxis, being white. Sometimes, I don’t mind. If I’m sitting next to someone who speaks decent English and can carry on an interesting conversation, I’ll chat them up for the entire 45 minutes from town back to my house. I’ve met some interesting people; last week, I met a teacher from a nearby high school who was also my host mother’s sister. The week before, I coincidentally met a teacher from a fellow volunteer’s school. I’ve met people coming home for the first time in years to see their families. I meet lots of people who dream of someday coming to New York.
Sometimes, though, I’ll get stuck next to a creepy old man who asks for my phone number or to marry me. I usually say that I don’t have a phone, or that I’m already married. Even worse, sometimes I’ll get stuck next to an enormous woman who takes up two and a half seats, though she insists on squeezing in and sweating all over me. And speaking of sweating, apparently no one likes to ride in the car with a window cracked. It doesn’t matter if the taxi is overflowing with fat ladies and kids and smelly men, no one will open a window. It smells disgusting and I always arrive at my destination dripping wet with sweat.
This weekend, I’m going to visit my dear friend Heather who lives about an hour and a half from me. I’m already prepping myself for the taxi ride. It’s always an interesting experience riding in a Lesotho taxi.
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