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    Taxi Cab Drivers And Sex And Women

    Travel has taught me a great deal of things. One of them being that Taxi drivers love to talk about women and sex to foreigners. The moment, they ask you: “First time in Jo’burg, Dar es Salaam, Warsaw, London, etc.?” and your answer is “Yes”, you’re in for a fascinating time.
    In Famagusta, I had this cab guy whom on noticing I was new to town asked whether I had been to some of the many strip clubs in town. He took time to tell me the different European nationalities that populate the place, and adding that if I was too shy, I could come with a face cap, or better still detail the physical attributes I love in a woman and he would go get her for me. You needed to see the seriousness on his face.
    In March 2015, I was in Dar es Salaam getting taxied from Airport to Oyster Bay by a cab man, named John, who also doubled as a Real Estate agent, and possibly a pimp. He asked if I was interested in knowing what the local women were like. He said, being a Nigerian, he could vouch for our sense of adventure, and that such pleasures were not things we typically spurned. I was stunned.
    It was no different in Ghana. July of the same year. Leaving my hotel somewhere in East Legon to the Kotoko Airport, the cab man, so cheerful, asked how long I’d stayed for, and whether I enjoyed my stay. I told him Banku and Tilapia, with a sprinkle of shito was a mean meal. He smiled and threw in the usual suspect. “How did you find our women?” I shook my head.
    Somehow, I was in Accra to “find women” and I didn’t realise it.
    October 2011, I had just arrived Aberystwyth for Postgrad studies, and hired a cab man to take me a few places in town. He inquired if I was new to town, and I nodded. Up next was the usual suspect. “Hope you’re enjoying it mate? You know, not much to do around here, it’s a small university town. So how do you find the women?” He was brimming with smiles when he threw that last part in. “I guess we’ll know about that soon enough,” I replied and we both laughed.
    In Rome last year was the only time a taxi man didn’t throw that line at me. Maybe because it was actually a 6-seater airport bus, and though it was just the both of us in front, he seemed more interested in acting as a tour guide. Or maybe, if he didn’t struggle so much with English, he might have been able to pop the question too.
    But the mother of all cabbie pimp was the guy that took me from O.R Tambo Airport in Johannesburg last year to Rosebank. Damn! Dude looked like he had all the resume of randy local politicians on lock. Regaled me with so much stories, I’d have loved to extend the trip if I could.
    He told me of this particular politician whose cheating ways had led to an agreement between him and his wife that his car would have a tracker she’d use to know his position at every time. So he tells her he’s off to an international trip, and parks at the airport, then hires the cab man to taxi him to his various rendezvous spots.
    “First time in South Africa?” He finally asked. And I said “Yes.”
    “You know,” he continued “Get settled in your hotel, freshen up, in the evening I can come back if you need me. You know, you cannot just visit a place and leave without checking out the women, that won’t be prapa.” You needed to see the seriousness on his face.
    Taxi men. Airport taxis. Always trying to make sure you get laid in their country. And I still have no idea what’s in it for them.

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