Getting around Freetown

Getting around in this city is an interesting enterprise. For those of us not working for the UN (read: without SUVs at our disposal), the options are shared taxis, chartered taxis, and poda-podas. None are fast.

Freetown is mired in a state of perpetual gridlock, save for the weekends - so much so that Bryna has coined the term FTT, meaning Freetown Traffic Time, as a catch-all term to explain tardiness of any sort.

Ironically, whenever traffic grinds to an especially lengthy halt, one can all but guarantee there are at least a couple of Sierra Leone's finest at work; it seems as though about 70% of the po-po's work hours go into ineffectual roadside guidance.

It can be a headache to deal with on a daily basis, but relatively speaking, it's not that bad. In fact, the driving is tame enough that I wouldn't be all that intimidated by the prospect of getting behind the wheel. I've not yet seen an accident, presumably because the dense traffic never allows anyone to get moving with any semblance of speed.

So far, I've relied primarily on shared taxis. These are taxis that run along loosely defined routes and pick up passengers to fill their four seats as they go. When a taxi has an unfilled space, it beeps as it approaches (just one of countless opportunities to fill the city with that shrill noise) and slows down enough that you can yell your destination. If they like what they hear, they stop.

It's generally advisable to negotiate your fare before getting in the cab. Though hucksters are rare, I have been asked to pay as much as Le 10,000 (a little over $3) when no local would ever be asked for more than Le 2000. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a local charged more than 1000 (about $0.30).

And while I don't mind paying a small white man tax (I generally pay 2000 for my rides to and from work, though a local would only pay half that), I actually laughed and walked away when someone tried to charge me Le 5000 a couple days ago. That's less than $2. Which I'm sure makes me sound cheap.

But it's not really about the fact that I can afford a couple bucks. I don't like it when I know someone's trying to rip me off, and I don't like setting a precedent that tells local taxi drivers they can get away with charging all white people far higher fares. From what I've seen, locals don't like it either.

A few days back, after the driver and I agreed to a Le 2000 price when I got in, he tried to up it to 3000 when he let me off. Thirty seconds prior, the guy that got on with me disembarked having paid 500. I protested, and the guy next to me jumped in, admonishing the driver and saying if anyone would have to pay an extra 1000 for my fare, it'd be him, essentially shaming the driver into abiding by the original deal.

The good samaritan was far more representative of the average Sierra Leonean than the cabbie.

Yesterday, a similarly good-natured fellow advised me - after watching me unsuccessfully attempt to flag a cab to Congo Cross, the turntable (local term for roundabouts) nearest my house - that I should really take a poda-poda instead. Having never done this, I no doubt looked unsure.

Poda-podas are clunky minibuses that run along slightly more defined routes than the shared taxis. There is a fare collector that sits nearest the door and yells the destination out of the window all day, jumping on and off, often before the vehicle has stopped, to let people pile in.

Poda-podas are cheap. My ride home cost Le 800 (about $0.25). They're also very uncomfortable, packing upwards of 20 people into a modified vehicle not much larger than a minivan. The modifications optimize space at comfort's expense, leaving hard benches as the only interlocutor between passengers' hindquarters and the jarring roads. But I got home relatively quickly and could definitely see myself using poda-podas more frequently.

Today's commute to work was probably the strangest one yet, though. I was picked up almost immediately upon setting foot on the main road where I generally flag a cab in the morning. I rode shotgun and, though the driver picked up and dropped off other passengers on the way to my station, I noted quizzically that no exchange of money ever took place.

Instead, Samura (I learned his name before the end of the trip) sung happily, albeit poorly, to his Christian CD, pausing occasionally to yell at friends we passed on the street. When a song called "Days of Elijah" that I recognized from my days at Highview Community Church came on, I said something in passing about not having heard the song in a while.

Samura nodded that it was a very good song and quickly scanned to another track on the album, saying something to the effect of, "I can't get the words for this one. You tell me what it says?"

I paused briefly, not really knowing what to say, and then figured, "Why not?" I rumaged through my knapsack, grabbed a pen and notepad and began scribbling down the song lyrics as fast as I could, while Samura paused it whenever I started to fall behind. He even pulled right up to my building as I finished writing (I normally just get dropped off at the street entrance).

After a few unsuccessful attempts to pay him, I got out of the car and started my work day, uneasy about the free ride but happy that I was at least able to provide him with something in return for one of the more pleasant rides to work I've had to date. Never a dull moment, I suppose.