Casa Taxi

If I'd known that the partner I'm visiting this week had a hotel next door, I would have stayed there.


This would have been a better option, not simply due to the fact that I wouldn't have had to put up with the awful service and food at the Sheraton last night, followed by not being able to shave and shower this morning as the water wasn't working.


The main advantage would have been to miss spending 45 minutes driving each way with my life in the hands of 'petit taxi' drivers.


Although I haven't experienced a taxi held together with metal bars and with holes in the floor, as on previous visits, I have experienced driving at high speed down the wrong side of the road, coupled with more near misses than is healthy.


This morning's taxi had working seatbelts at least, although they did leave a dirty stripe down my shirt, which matched my general unwashed and unshaven appearance. We also stopped three times to pick up other passengers who happened to be on my route.


The petit taxis here are not much fun. Smelly, dirty, held together with string, pumping out diesel fumes into the inside of the car via the windows that don't close, racing around like Michael Schumacher.


This evening's taxi conversation was a classic.


'Le Sheraton, s'll vous plait'.


'Insh'allah...'.


I made it back in one piece, alhamdillulah.

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