We have been living in Libreville for almost 4 months now, getting around every day, and so far we have only seen 1 city bus. Seriously: 1 bus with 50 seats at best, for 700 or 800 thousand inhabitants. In short, public transport does not exist here.

Back in September, we ordered a new car from a local dealer. Its delivery has been delayed since the customs have been on strike for a while. We have not considered renting a car in the meantime, it’s simply too expensive and without real full insurance.

But 1 out of 4 cars is a taxi. Out of pure necessity, we have therefore become very experienced Libreville taxi riders, which is a rare attribute amongst Europeans living here. And by now, we like taking taxis. It’s fun, and it’s the best way to get the pulse of the city. Until we finalize the Definitive Libreville Taxi User Guide, which we are sure at least 12 people may be interested in, here are some first insider tips:

How to recognize them? By their color.

White and red is for Libreville, white and green is for Akanda (Northern suburbs), white and purple is for Owendo (Southern suburbs). Regardless of these colors, they can take you anywhere. There are also “clandos” (clandestine) taxis moving around, but as a foreigner it’s advisable not to take them.

How does it work? By some sort of miracle.

Each street has an unmarked spot at which people stand and flag taxis – if you stand outside of this spot trying to bypass other passengers, you will make enemies. Once you’re in place, just take your thumb out, and within maximum 2 minutes a taxi will slow down towards you and the (sometimes many) other people waiting.

From then on, you have to shout as fast and loud as possible your price and destination: 1500 Sablière! 1000 M’bolo! 500 montée de Louis! There is absolutely no time for negotiation, you need to know the price of this perfectly auto-regulated market – around 1000 CFA francs (1,5 euro) for 4 km, with variations depending on the time of the day and the weather outside (that means you should propose more if it’s peak hour and raining).

Then, the driver makes the final decision to take you on board or not. It all depends on how many passengers he already has in his car, and where he already has promised to take each of them. If your destination fits into his overall itinerary, and he likes your price, then he honks – that means jump in. Of course, you stand a much higher chance to succeed if the taxi is empty.

If it does not work for him, the driver just looks straight ahead and drives away – most often making a chipping noise with his mouth. At first, we felt totally offended when this happened, how dare he treat us like that? But now we understand that drivers have no time for manners nor politeness, and it’s all right.

Never ever accept to get into a taxi that already has 5 passengers, or you may get into serious trouble with the police.

Who is in them? Everyone.

Taxi drivers are usually foreigners, mostly coming from Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso, Mali or Togo. As for passengers, it’s a big melting pot of students, workers, businessmen or women, mums with their little children… Each ride is unique and you’re always in for a surprise! Sometimes, the radio works, so the atmosphere will be the news of the excellent RFI (Radio France International) or music from the driver’s country of origin, stored on an old USB key. Asking details about the music is the best way to engage an interesting conversation with the driver.

What are they like on the outside? Wrecks on wheels.

All taxis are Toyota, without any single exception, with a predominance of 6^th and 7^th generation Corolla and 4^thgeneration Carina. Basically, it means the newer Libreville taxis have been on roads for 25 years. But these are Toyotas, so even though they look like they are about to fall apart from the outside, they don’t fall apart. Still, opening any door is all crackle and rattle.

And on the inside? Like something you’ve never seen before – former Toyota colleagues would call it a crime scene.

Seats are often ripped open, when they are not covered by a thick layer of transparent plastic that sticks to your sweaty skin, or a super furry carpet that keeps you far too warm. Wire and cables can come out of everywhere on and around the dashboard, looking like can worms at the back of the black central hole were a radio once was.

Drivers are stopped and controlled everyday by the police and they need to ensure that the front passenger / mother-in-law’s seatbelt can be effectively fastened. So, you just take this disheveled thread of braided rope, being careful it does not touch your skin too much, and you buckle it up – most of the time with the help of the driver. There are no rear seatbelts.

The orange dials behind the steering wheel simply do not operate, they are stuck at zero. You will never be able to know how fast you’re going, but it does not really matter since there are no speed limits in Gabon.

The default position of the windows is down, or half-down. Depending on the weather, the crazy idea to close it may cross you. In that case, here are the possible scenarios:

1. the manual handle is totally broken or missing – most likely
2. all manual handles are missing but the driver can pass 1 handle around, so passengers can wind up the windows one after the other – likely and effective
3. the driver needs to get out of the car and manually pulls up the window for your comfort – likely and ineffective
4. the manual handle or automatic window switch works – very unlikely

A good tip is to always carry a plastic bag with you, so that you can hold it out by the window as a means of protection against tropical rain. As for the driver, they usually have a holed T-shirt or an overused cloth at hand by the gearshift, to clean the inside of the windshield and improve visibility, as windshield wipers are either absent or making things worse. This cloth can also be handed around for passengers to dry their rainy seats. We promised never to touch this cloth, rather sitting in a puddle throughout the ride.

Rain or shine or wind, after your taxi ride, your hair anyhow looks like a haystack. Depending on its orientation, one can tell if you have been sitting on the left or right side of the car. Locals do not have this problem – most men have very short hair, and a lot of women wear wigs.

But.. air conditioning? Of course we know what it is. We have heard about it.

How do they drive? The Driver only knows.

How do you get out? Take your hand out of the window.

Since there is most often no inside door handle, you need to open the door from the outside, while still sitting inside the taxi. In the back, only the right door opens (for security, which is really well thought of), so when you have arrived, you’ll need to ask passengers on your right to get out first and let you out.

Congratulations! You’ve safely reached your destination!

Fruzsi & Thomas

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DIY warning signs / Panneaux d’avertissement faits maison

I had always told my daughters that one of the best things about being a father is to be called Papa, and to know that they are the only 2 persons in the world who can call me so. That was before we arrived in Africa.

It took me quite a while to realise that a lot of these taxi drivers, women behind the counter, or these random people with whom I started to chat were calling me Papa, for real. Papa here, Papa there, Papa everywhere. Funny!

I am not sure yet what qualifies you to be called Papa. There surely is some element of age – any man with a bit of grey hair or few hair left or a combination of both (like me) is a Papa. But I also saw teenagers receiving this title. My guess is that it’s mostly a matter of looking just responsible enough for yourself.

Anyhow, I like it because I feel it’s a mark of respect, a sort of token of welcome into the big African family, if such thing exists. No situation can go wrong when you’re talking with someone who tells you that you’re his Daddy.

Ah, and it works for ladies too, of course! Any young girl or woman selling on the street or at the market is a Maman. Even Milla, who’s 12, was called Maman last weekend at the marathon.

Thomas

Ce week-end nous avons participé en famille au Marathon du Gabon, l’événement majeur de cette fin d’année à Libreville. Nous ne sommes pas une famille de grands marathoniens et avons donc couru des épreuves à notre portée : 1,5 km pour les filles, 5 km pour Fruzsi et 10 km pour moi. Super ambiance festive au départ, des coureurs et des coureuses partout, des supporters au rendez-vous dans la tribune officielle, et la musique à fond pour motiver les troupes !

Au quatrième kilomètre, le boulevard Triomphal commence à monter sournoisement. Le soleil tape sur la moitié droite de mon visage. La moitié des participants est déjà passé à la marche. Mon allure est ridicule mais je ne m’arrête pas. Et puis, il y a enfin le rond-point de la Démocratie et son point de ravitaillement, le premier de la course. Les tables garnies de bouteilles d’eau et de quartiers d’orange sont prises d’assaut et les 10 premières s’écroulent sous l’emballement des coureurs assoiffés et incontrôlables. J’attrape deux bouteilles au vol, croque un quartier, puis les pompiers m’arrosent d’eau de la tête aux pieds et je repars dans l’autre sens, en descente, presque rafraîchi.

Il faudrait qu’un jour des experts se penchent sur l’incidence du climat sur la performance des Européens plutôt du Nord que nous sommes dans ce genre d’événement sportif. A combien de kilomètres européens sont équivalents 5 ou 10 km parcourus à zéro degré de latitude, sous 28 degrés et 90% d’humidité ? Après la simple satisfaction d’avoir passé la ligne d’arrivée (et pour moi en particulier le soulagement d’être arrivé quelques minutes avant le premier du semi-marathon :-), on se prend à rêver qu’après avoir couru 5 ou 10 km sans s’arrêter dans ces conditions tropicales, on pourrait peut-être courir facilement un semi-marathon en Europe…

Il y a des médailles pour tout le monde à l’arrivée..

Quoiqu’il en soit pour nous pauvres amateurs, la performance des gagnants de chaque compétition est impressionnante. A pied sur le chemin du retour à la maison, je croise le trio de tête du marathon – 3 Kenyans bien sûr, qui semblent planer à quelques centimètres au-dessus du sol, comme étrangers à la sueur.

Et ça remet bien les idées en place de voir des participants prendre le départ en Converse, ou finir le semi-marathon pieds nus sur le bitume tellement ils ont mal dans leurs chaussures à semelle de 5 mm… ici on fait avec les moyens du bord, loin de la surenchère dans l’équipement qui prévaut parfois de par chez nous.

Thomas

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Fruzsi