Earlier this year I was in Mali, west Africa, researching the Banka people.
After days of exhausting village research 600 Km east of Bamako, I made the long trek back to the capital city. With some time to kill I had an adventure in mind, so I quickly found a place to eat and began to set the adventure in motion. I waved to a dilapidated piece of junk that had fenders and door panels that flapped like wings- It's referred to as a taxi in West Africa. I was not sure whether I should get into this rust can. But the driver gave me a reserved smile.
I threw caution to the wind and said to the taxi man; “I will give you 5000 cfa ($11) to let me sit in the taxi with you as you pick up other clients. I would like to see every corner of the city”. He smiled and waved for me to get in. That was the first of many evening conversations with him smiling and nodding, but not really understanding much of what I said because of his sparse French ability. However, I did get to see every back corner of the City of Bamako, and crossed the famous Niger River 5-6 times.
Mali taxi man eventually took me to meet his son at the moto shop where he worked. Later, I was taken to meet his sister and her children. A few more clients picked up and dropped off in various alleyways around the city, and then a trip home to introduce me to his wife and kids. Twenty stops on the road to meet and greet his friends we happened to encounter, and conversations with everyone he picked up as well. I kind of felt a little like a freak show. But on the other hand it was just what I came to Mali for – the people. It was nice. I smiled and gave genuinely sincere greetings, and warm thanks to each person to whom I was “presented”. I was very touched.
This taxi man did not know this strange white guy, yet he saw fit to share his time and use his expensive gas to take me home to meet every person he loved and cherished most. This Malian taxi driver did not merely give me a ride, he gave me part of his life. I had received something significantly more precious than the gas money I gave him.
We separated, and there I was standing on the side of the road having graciously been given a mind full of memories, and a heart full of mixed emotions. I was genuinely touched by this mans gesture. A precious child of God, who's name I don't remember, so in my prayers I simply refer to him as "The Malian Taxi Man". How I would love to spend more time sharing life and faith with this Muslim man. But I wonder if this Malian taxi man even remembers me? Does he remember the day he took this unknown Canadian to those he loves? I remember him. I will never forget him the rest of my life.
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