Taxi Driver and Providence

On Tuesday, we went to SOS to pick up the boys from school. Our van is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a newer model. It's a 1994 (older than Sean, even!) Nissan Quest. And we're desperately awaiting for some parts to keep it running. So, no big surprise, after the kids were all packed up into the car, it wouldn't start. Sly kept turning the key, and it would grind, but not catch. After about 15 minutes of that, Sly (finally!) suggested that maybe the rest of us should get in a taxi and go home. I fully seconded the motion, since I was, by this point, starving to death. I have this terrible habit of skipping meals, especially when I know that there's something especially good waiting for me. It makes the eating and savoring that much more enjoyable. In this case, it was the anticipation of the home-made spinach and ricotta cheese calzone that I planned to make.

Normally, getting a taxi is not a problem, there's usually dozens of taxis plying this stretch of road in Tema, as there are schools all along it and teachers and catering people needing taxis to take them home. But for whatever reason, every taxi that we saw was full. It was so sad.

Finally, on the horizon, Sly spots an empty taxi and signals him to come and pick us up. With surprisingly very little negotiation, the driver agrees to take us home for 12,000 cedis (or about $1.30). I'm thinking, wow! That's pretty cheap, and he didn't even include the obroni tax that I usually have to pay. In fact, we pay our own taxi driver 20,000 cedis each way to take the boys to school.

Sean gets into the front passenger seat, and Mike, Alex and I climb into the back. Sly is walking back to our stranded van to await the mechanic (who makes car calls, by the way). And I'm wondering, as I'm getting my first good glance of the interior, if maybe this is the last time we'll see him alive. We are in a rolling death trap. Now I know why the price is so low. The driver is embarrassed to ask for more! The front dashboard is a tangle of wires, the back door handle is broken and I (strongly!) encourage Mike to squish towards the middle of the seat, so that he doesn't accidentally bump open the door. And there are holes in the floorboard in front of me so that I can see the pavement beneath us. And where the hell are the seat belts? There are none I can see here in the back, and Sean is desperately, and futilely as it turns out, trying to latch his.

Okay, I think, it's only a 7 minute drive, what could possibly happen in 7 minutes? I'm not Catholic, but I know that St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, and I figure a little prayer couldn't hurt right about now.

Our driver asks Sean, in what is known locally as pidgin-English, if he knows where we are going. Apparently, he does not, and Sean points out the way. Fortunately, unlike many other taxi drivers, this driver is not speeding, though I realize the reason for this only in hindsight. We reach a traffic light, and the driver turns off the engine to conserve gas. Light turns green, driver cranks the key. Nothing. And again, nothing. Oops! We're out of gas.

"Madam, is okay," he tells me, "you wait small." He rushes around to the back of the taxi and fitfaddles with the gas cap. Then he opens the boot and pulls out a gallon plastic Frytol Oil bottle. It's his reserve gas tank! Oh, Jeez.

All of a sudden, I hear a familiar honking. It's our Nissan Quest, right behind us! I yell to Sean to get out of the car carefully, and for the other two to come out my side and go straight to the van. Meanwhile, there is traffic trying desperately to get through the green (and yellow and some of the red) light and swerving around us, and there's more traffic coming towards us from the opposite direction. And apparently the majority of the drivers are getting whiplash straining to watch the panicked obroni herd her kids to safety. No doubt they are all wondering what's the big deal, since this is a fairly typical occurrence here in Ghana.

Safely belted into the Nissan Quest, we give a couple of Hip-Hip-Hoorays to our hero, Daddy, who tells us that, strangely, the car started right up! And I offer up to St. Christopher, my silent prayer of thanks. It worked.