Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Bush Taxis: An Existential Crisis


En route to Dapaong, our bush taxi piles on charcoal and fruit to be sold at a premium price. Passengers, however, fail to reap any benefits

Traveling in Togo, hmm…I’ve been sitting on this egg for awhile. One of my main objectives for this blog is to not paint too grim a portrait of life in Togo. It’s a trap door into which many a’ volunteer fall. But good golly! is there any positive light to shed here?

If you’ve ever taken a gander at Togo, I imagine you will first be struck by its minute proportions within the colossal mass of Africa. West Virginia’s surface area exceeds that of Togo’s-or at least that’s what the pamphlet that the Peace Corps sent me said. But don’t be fooled. Travel from one end to another north to south and I bet you would approximate its area to the likes of Indiana, Montana, Alaska! Ok, Alaska is a stretch. A big stretch. Montana probably is too. Point being, traveling in Togo is somewhat of an optical illusion. Objects on map are larger than they appear.


This bush taxi lucks out. Although clunky, the baskets on the roof will not weigh down this vehicle as much as other items. Cement, charcoal, flour, and animals are all bad news for travelers.

Togo boasts one national route that spans the country. One. All goods travel on this route. This road pulls a lot of weight. All commerce relies—nay—is utterly at the mercy of this road. And this slab of concrete isn’t what you’d call interstatesque. No off-ramps, no great median, no broad shoulders. No easily accessible Arby’s either, but that’s another point. Nope, the equivalent of a rundown, two-lane county highway serves as the sole mode of transport. Potholes are plentiful, deep, formidable.

Then there are the things on the road. I imagine I could clump vehicles into four groups (this excludes the mule-drawn wagons, bicycles, and motorcycles): NGOs, the upper class, bush taxis, and the titans.

You see a new, all-terrain vehicle in Togo, chances are they come from an NGO; Red Cross, European Union, Peace Corps and on and on. After that, you have the few, the proud, the car-owners. Cars owned for private use will only be found in bigger cities, though they remain a rarity. It’s no surprise the owners of the cars often hold high positions within the aforementioned NGOs or the government.

Now comes my forte, the bush taxi, an ugly necessity of traveling among the masses.
In the States, a bunch of hoopla has been raised concerning the amount of energy we waist driving to and fro in gasoholics all by our lonesome. In the opposing corner, Togo takes this philosophy, flips it upside down, and takes it to its logical conclusion: utilizing every square inch of space all the way to absurdity.

A side angle of a run of the mill bush taxi

Personal space comes second, if at all. Chauffeurs are not penalized for doubling the amount of people the taxi is supposed to hold. Quite the contrary, the driver puts extra cash flow in his pocket. If he decides to tie some goats, or sacs of manioc, or a few tons of charcoal on the roof, the driver remains the sole beneficiary. Compromising comfort is one thing. But step into a bush taxi here, and to some level, you compromise personal safety.

When I myself take that step, I numb myself, mentally and physically, as much as possible. There I am, sitting dumbly in a state of half-consciousness until the destination is reached. My mind does wander though.

I think about a lot of things in bush taxis…my next blog entry, the fate of mankind, plums, etc. Then my cerebral ponderings drift to ol’ Sal’s narrative of Dean and him tearing across the great intercontinental U.S. Dean’s maneuvering was so exquisite, so Sal said, that he could be swerving in and out of traffic, narrowly averting disaster by the closest of margins without an afterthought. Then I gaze on and see a herd of cattle crossing the route up ahead. And so on.

Without fail though, I end up in a sort of existential crisis. Oft-times I am overcome with anger.
“I shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be happening. What am I doing? Where am I at? Good God, man!” Then the taxi passes on a turn. And so forth.

Without further adieu, I present to you the titans, the Hercules of the road. These lugs, the great semis, demand reverence to all passersby. But don’t be fooled. Titans are subject to the same laws that govern bush taxis: do not, at any cost, waist a square inch of space. I couldn’t conjecture a guess as to how many tons are piled on those guys, but they do sort of slouch. There are some rolling hills along the national route where, without fail, old and fresh titan carcasses will be, for lack of a better word, decaying on the side of the road. It’s a sorry sight.

A year in, I like to think I’ve found a little groove here. Things that were once strange are now strangely familiar. But if I don’t shake my head in disbelief every time I’m in a taxi! I forecasted the trend continuing, that is, until the rains came.

Two months back, excessive rains hit the south. Two bridges on the national route collapsed, fatally clogging the aorta of commerce. The aftermath was swift and brutal.

An emergency bypass was successfully executed. But as is to be expected, the path was second rate. Traffic struggled to squeeze through the bypass. By and by, everything got backed up. What was once a two hour ride turned into eight. The titans were hit the worst. Then again, they didn’t help themselves. Overweight bruisers immediately wreaked havoc on the feeble detour. Soon detours were constructed on the detour.

Ug, it’s a wicked cycle. Lack of goods causes overloading. Overloading causes the road to crumble. Crumbling roads cause an even greater lack of goods. This drives up their prices. This causes an even greater loading.

I’m going to miss a lot of things about Togo. The eggs are fresh, the work schedule flexible, the company stimulating. And dagnabbit! every blue moon or so you do catch a taxi with some redeemable quality: a rockin’ reggae cassette collection, a classic persona, or better yet, a responsible driver. It makes a guy look up and thank the cosmos. But more times than not, stepping into a bush taxi, I gaze up and hope the big man upstairs isn't holding any grudges.