The Taximan

From the dusty curb, I flag down a taxi and prepare to barter with the driver (or taximan as we say here).

I don't want to be charged the tourist price.  I'm not a tourist.  This is my home.  But neither do I want to rip someone off - they're trying to make a living.

A good price, someone told me, is one that satisfies both the seller and the buyer.  That's become my goal.

I lean towards the open window and greet him in Wolof (this simple act, I have found, can make all the difference).  I tell him I want to go to le rond-point by a certain university.

He nods.  "2,500 francs."
"No, no," I laugh, "that's too much.  1,200."  It's less than I expect to pay, but not so low that he'll feel insulted and drive off.
"2,000," he counters, "there's lots of traffic."
"Everyone always says that," I laugh again.  "I'll give you 1,500."
He motions with his thumb towards the backseat; the price is satisfactory.

I climb in.

It's funny, as much as bartering stressed me out when I first came, I kind of enjoy it now - at least most of the time.  There's something satisfying about getting the price I've settled in my mind beforehand, and knowing the unspoken rules allows me to enjoy the bit of playful banter that usually finds its way into the experience.

He glances in the rear view mirror.  "Hey, you're not French, are you?"
"No, no, I'm not French."
"American?"
"Yes."
"I could tell."
"How?"
"Oh, because you greeted me in Wolof.  The French never want to learn Wolof," he replies.

Perhaps his statement is an over-generalization, but at any rate, I feel like there's a hidden compliment in what he's saying.  I tuck the conversation away in my mind as a reminder to use Wolof greetings instead of French.

He chatters on about how wonderful Senegal is, and I am secretly glad he's more eager to tell me how great it is here than to dream about going to the States.