Taxi! Taxi!

While in the Gambia, I'm taking classes at the University of the Gambia (UTG). UTG is the only University in the Gambia and until it was founded ten years ago, there was no higher education in the country at all beyond a few colleges (which here are more like trade or vocational schools).
Prior to this year, UTG classes were held around the city of Banjul (where I live) in rented buildings. This year UTG moved out to Brikama to share a campus with Gambia College (a teaching school).

Unfortunately for me and other students (international and Gambian), walking to class is no longer feasible. The university only moved about 15 miles a way, but it takes about an hour to get there.

We travel to class using Gambia's version of public transportation: bush taxis. Picture a twelve passenger van that did not pass inspection. Make it 15 or 20 years older. Modify the hell out the inside so you can cram as many people in as possible. Bash the outside of it a few times. And maybe make the sliding door stick. That's pretty much a bush taxi.

Unlike buses in the United States, bush taxis have no set routes or times. They travel along wherever they think they can make a buck. You stand on the side of the road waiting for the bush taxi apprentice (a guy collects the money and hangs out the window trying to get customers) shouts out the name of a town in the general direction you want to go.
It costs 5 dalasis (or about 25 cents) for a short ride and 12 dalasis (or about 50 cents) for a long ride. Coming home from classes we often get dropped off about a mile from where we live. Sometimes if there's enough of us we can convince them to go an extra mile (for a price), but we have been choosing to save the dalasis and walk home.

You see a lot interesting things on the bush taxis. Yesterday, a woman brought two live chickens on that were tied together by their feet. She set them on the floor next to me and I was terrified they were going to peck my toes, but they were quite still and quiet. Another time, we were riding along and every seat was full. We stopped to pick up a bunch of school children and I was confused as to how we would fit them. The boys just climbed in and sat on whatever laps were available. My friend, Belle, caught a bush taxi to class. After driving about five minutes, the driver pulled over, got out, and sat down to eat his lunch. When he had finished up, he got back in and they went on their way.

Bush taxis have also made me more aware of how my comfort level shifts have shifted. The first time I rode in a bush taxi, there were three of us on a bench that was made for two people and I was squashed in between two Gambian men. I smiled and made small talk and had a very pleasant conversation. In America, if I had been squashed between two men I didn't know, I would have been uncomfortable, worried and maybe even a little scared. There certainly wouldn't have been any pleasant conversation.

It makes me wonder what the difference is. I wasn't any more or less safe on the bush taxi here than I would be on bus in the US. I thought perhaps I was judgmental and prejudiced against bus takers in America. Happily, I have realized that is not the case. It simply a difference of culture. Americans have a very large sense of personal space. It would be extraordinarily odd for two strangers - especially strange men - to sit that close to me, and it would be understandable for me to be creeped out. Gambians have a much smaller sense of personal space, especially on the bush taxis where the goal is to cram as many people in as possible. Here, I accept close quarters as a cultural norm.