Evil taxi drivers
Ghanaians are maybe second only to Malawians for being the most friendly people in Africa. They’ve got big, goofy, white-toothed smiles at the ready for everyone and anyone. Children burst into gales of laughter, they’ll shout obruni at the sight of you. Even babies, unless they’ve been told repeatedly that white people will eat them, will happily flirt with whomever looks their way. Old people stop to shake hands, young men will tell you they want to be friends and will ask whether you might want take them home to Canada with you.
On several occasions, I’ve climbed into a shared cab or tro-tro and had my fare paid by a complete stranger, who not only doesn’t accept any thanks, sometimes they don’t even let you know they’re paying your fare. People who struggle to feed their families often drop off red-red and plaintain at our house and offer to cook Ghanaian food for us. During Homowo, the festival of all things Ga, our neighbours invited us in for dinner and expected nothing in return. Ghanaians are really such generous, wonderful people.
Except the taxi drivers.
I don’t know what it is about getting a taxi license that makes you such a miserly, miserable person, but I have yet to encounter a taxi driver that made my day more pleasant. People assure me they exist, that they’ve even been given free rides by taxi drivers when they’re clearly lost, but I’ve yet to meet these mythical creatures. For the most part, the drivers I’ve encountered are rude conniving fraudsters bent on collecting an obruni tax.
Since I have arrived in Accra, the only thing that’s reduced me to tears is a cab driver. On this particular day, before JHR ponied up with a hundred more dollars, I was taking tro-tros to work, or at least attempting to take them to interviews. The problem is that taking a tro-tro to an interview in Accra is a lot like taking public transit to an interview somewhere north of Steeles. It takes forever and even when you get out at the prescribed stop, you still have no idea where you’re going and you may have to walk for a while before you get there.
That’s what I was doing, walking begrudgingly under a blistering sun, desperately trying to find a office that no one had seen or heard of before. After asking a series of increasingly unhelpful locals, I finally got into a cab – who wanted to take me for c20,000, even though he didn’t have a clue where he was going. I was so hot, tired and frustrated, I could feel my resolve fading. He got us even more hopelessly lost, then when I finally directed him to the building after a half-dozen frantic phone calls, he demanded more money because it had taken so long. I told him to quit accepting fare when he has no idea where he’s going, then I slammed the door.
I was in a shared cab once where the driver spoke in rapid-fire Twi when I got into the car and I could tell he was talking about me by the way the other passengers were glancing at me. When I asked to get out of my stop, he tried to charge me double. I refused to pay and he eventually relented. I made a comment about the “obruni” tax before again, slamming a cab door. The slamming doesn’t really make me feel any better, it just stops me from kicking things.
At one point, we took a taxi up to Tetteh Quarshie Circle, West Africa’s largest traffic circle, although God only knows why it needs to be so big. It’s in the middle of nowhere and seems to go nowhere. It’s a bit of a hike from our house and most obrunis pay about c20,000 to get there. C15,000 is considered a good deal. This particular driver wanted c25,000 because there would be traffic. There’s always traffic, by the way. But because we were late and he was the first taxi to pass in about five minutes, we agreed.
He was, undoubtedly, the worst taxi driver ever. His cab smelled, it was adorned with all these weird soccer banners and doo-dads and the speedometer didn’t appear to work. He nearly rear-ended a car, then almost mowed down an old man crossing the street. The man looked confused about whether he should step out and the driver braked, then when he was already moving across the pedestrian strip, he sped up. The guy jumped out of the way, but was smart enough to reach into the cab and cuff the driver. I wished, fervently, that he’d hurt him. He continued to drive like a maniac, nearly getting us sideswiped as he merged onto the circle. At our destination he demanded we “dash” him, the local slang for tipping or bribing. I told him plainly that he was the worst driver in all of Accra and that’s not something to be proud of. Then, you guessed it. I slammed the door.
I rarely take taxis, to be honest. I prefer tro-tros, where there are lots of people to help you, they set a fixed rate and the mate looks out for you and rarely over charges you unless he doesn’t have change.
A Ghanaian friend has taken pity on me, though, and taught me a couple useful lines for taxi drivers:
“Driver, eh te sen? Mi ko Sein?” The sein, which comes out as a sort of nasally grunt, means “how much?” and has to be accompanied by an inquiring twist of the wrist, largely because my pronunciation is so bad.
Most kind of giggle when I speak Twi, they’re somewhat delighted that I’ve picked up a few phrases. Some respond in Twi, which I try to guess at. Others pay no attention and still demand roughly twice what it should cost to get from place to place. I’ve learned to laugh and tell them: “C’mon! I learned Twi so you wouldn’t charge me so much!” Most relent. Those that don’t are better off without me in their cab. For the sake of their doors.
On several occasions, I’ve climbed into a shared cab or tro-tro and had my fare paid by a complete stranger, who not only doesn’t accept any thanks, sometimes they don’t even let you know they’re paying your fare. People who struggle to feed their families often drop off red-red and plaintain at our house and offer to cook Ghanaian food for us. During Homowo, the festival of all things Ga, our neighbours invited us in for dinner and expected nothing in return. Ghanaians are really such generous, wonderful people.
Except the taxi drivers.
I don’t know what it is about getting a taxi license that makes you such a miserly, miserable person, but I have yet to encounter a taxi driver that made my day more pleasant. People assure me they exist, that they’ve even been given free rides by taxi drivers when they’re clearly lost, but I’ve yet to meet these mythical creatures. For the most part, the drivers I’ve encountered are rude conniving fraudsters bent on collecting an obruni tax.
Since I have arrived in Accra, the only thing that’s reduced me to tears is a cab driver. On this particular day, before JHR ponied up with a hundred more dollars, I was taking tro-tros to work, or at least attempting to take them to interviews. The problem is that taking a tro-tro to an interview in Accra is a lot like taking public transit to an interview somewhere north of Steeles. It takes forever and even when you get out at the prescribed stop, you still have no idea where you’re going and you may have to walk for a while before you get there.
That’s what I was doing, walking begrudgingly under a blistering sun, desperately trying to find a office that no one had seen or heard of before. After asking a series of increasingly unhelpful locals, I finally got into a cab – who wanted to take me for c20,000, even though he didn’t have a clue where he was going. I was so hot, tired and frustrated, I could feel my resolve fading. He got us even more hopelessly lost, then when I finally directed him to the building after a half-dozen frantic phone calls, he demanded more money because it had taken so long. I told him to quit accepting fare when he has no idea where he’s going, then I slammed the door.
I was in a shared cab once where the driver spoke in rapid-fire Twi when I got into the car and I could tell he was talking about me by the way the other passengers were glancing at me. When I asked to get out of my stop, he tried to charge me double. I refused to pay and he eventually relented. I made a comment about the “obruni” tax before again, slamming a cab door. The slamming doesn’t really make me feel any better, it just stops me from kicking things.
At one point, we took a taxi up to Tetteh Quarshie Circle, West Africa’s largest traffic circle, although God only knows why it needs to be so big. It’s in the middle of nowhere and seems to go nowhere. It’s a bit of a hike from our house and most obrunis pay about c20,000 to get there. C15,000 is considered a good deal. This particular driver wanted c25,000 because there would be traffic. There’s always traffic, by the way. But because we were late and he was the first taxi to pass in about five minutes, we agreed.
He was, undoubtedly, the worst taxi driver ever. His cab smelled, it was adorned with all these weird soccer banners and doo-dads and the speedometer didn’t appear to work. He nearly rear-ended a car, then almost mowed down an old man crossing the street. The man looked confused about whether he should step out and the driver braked, then when he was already moving across the pedestrian strip, he sped up. The guy jumped out of the way, but was smart enough to reach into the cab and cuff the driver. I wished, fervently, that he’d hurt him. He continued to drive like a maniac, nearly getting us sideswiped as he merged onto the circle. At our destination he demanded we “dash” him, the local slang for tipping or bribing. I told him plainly that he was the worst driver in all of Accra and that’s not something to be proud of. Then, you guessed it. I slammed the door.
I rarely take taxis, to be honest. I prefer tro-tros, where there are lots of people to help you, they set a fixed rate and the mate looks out for you and rarely over charges you unless he doesn’t have change.
A Ghanaian friend has taken pity on me, though, and taught me a couple useful lines for taxi drivers:
“Driver, eh te sen? Mi ko
Most kind of giggle when I speak Twi, they’re somewhat delighted that I’ve picked up a few phrases. Some respond in Twi, which I try to guess at. Others pay no attention and still demand roughly twice what it should cost to get from place to place. I’ve learned to laugh and tell them: “C’mon! I learned Twi so you wouldn’t charge me so much!” Most relent. Those that don’t are better off without me in their cab. For the sake of their doors.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 9:19 AM
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