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The Patriarch of the streets
Once upon a time, in the fast-paced urban jungle of Dakar, an old lord of bitumes.
He was neither king nor marabout nor even elected municipal.
No. He, his throne, was an old seat in torn skai, and his kingdom stretched from Kur Massar to Ngor.
It was just called the fast bus.
Ah, fast bus!
That name is a joke in itself. It is neither because nor fast. It's kind of like calling a gutter cat. « Rafale ». But be careful, behind this mocking sobriquet hides a rolling legend, an urban immortal, more tenacious than a mosquito in the dry season.
Born in the post-independence years, this transport veteran survived all political regimes, all reforms, and all ministerial announcements... except perhaps air conditioning.
By means of approximate welding, silent prayers and bold roughness, it has become a national symbol: the rolling totem of the dakarese resourcefulness.
A rolling work of art
The fast bus is the street art mobile version. It is painted like a mystico-mechanical carnival: sky blue, chick yellow, Islamic green, and red « concentrated bissap ».
On its side, we often read Koranic verses and more philosophical maxims than a sociology course at UCAD.
Each bus is a travelling museum, an expressionist painting on wheels.
Inside? Time capsule. Four squeaky benches, a ceiling so low that even children have to lean, and a floor that seems to cry on each donkey back.
As for the engine, it is a Frankenstein of global mechanics : Japanese head joint, Moroccan carburetor, Spanish exhaust pot, and we suspect a divine intervention so that it starts again every morning.
The driver and his cascade acolyte
On board the fast bus, the real show starts ahead: driver, this frustrated Formula One driver, eternal horn player and bitumen philosopher.
His posture? Left arm outside, right hand on the horn, eyes pleated as if he read the future in traffic jams. His language is the horn:
- Tut-tut : « Let me through. »
- Tuuuut : « You want to die or what? »
- Tut-tut : « How's the family? »
And in the back, unequal apprentice. He's not just an assistant. No. He is the Chief of Protocol, the Minister of Vocal Transport. It is half cascader, half public, 100% acrobate of asphalt. He climbs, jumps, hits the body with a rhythm worthy of a sabar, and proudly announces:
« Petersen! Sandaga! Fass! Pkine! Come on, come on, there's two more seats up! »
He runs the car, fights, fish baskets, crying children and sleeping passengers. If he were to take an administrative contest, he would end up as Minister of Improvised Tourism.
Passenger theatre
A fast bus is a play at every stop.
You cross it:
- The Fish seller, scented with vintage guedj.
- The Young trendy, earphones in the ears but speakers in the bag.
- The Sleeping staff, awakened miraculously by a donkey back.
- The old griot, official commentator of national news, including football.
Every trip is a comedy. Conversations ignite:
— « Sonko did this... »
— « No, that's not true, you don't understand! »
— « And the Barça, did you see the game yesterday? »
And of course, the currency disputes are inevitable:
— « Learn, give me back my 100 francs! »
— « You gave me a 2000 ticket, not 5000! »
— « What did I give you? My smile? »
But everything always ends in a burst of laughter. Because in a fast bus, sense of humor is mandatory, especially when the brake is less.
State against indestructible
Ah, the state... The big Don Quixote in front of the windmill down.
For 20 years, each government has sworn to modernize transportation:
« We're going to remove the old fast buses! »
They tried:
- The TATAs? Already tired.
- The AFTU? Too organized.
- The TER? Too far from the neighborhoods.
But the fast bus, survives everything. He was reborn in every garage, resurrected by mechanics-magicians, protected by invisible marabouts and supported by the divine will... or by those who are too in a hurry.
And yet, every year, he mysteriously passes technical control. A Senegalese miracle, approved by the angels of the trouble.
Fast bus, or moving life
More than just a vehicle, the fast car is a Rolling metaphor.
He embodies this Senegalese ability to do a lot with little:
- No air conditioning? We open the door.
- No brake? We brake with feet (and faith).
- No space? We make up space.
It provides for thousands of families. It makes you laugh, it makes you laugh, it makes you move Dakar, at all costs. It's the Warm-up neighborhoods, traveling concert, psychological practice not approved, beating heart the city.
The moral of fable
Dear Dakarers, never despise this venerable ancestor on wheels.
Yeah, he's noisy. Yeah, he's dangerous. Yes, it sometimes smells burnt oil and smoked fish.
But only he can drop you between two potholes, outside your door, without GPS, no app, no credit card.
Morality : The fast bus is Dakar itself.
Not always fluid. Never predictable. But alive. Brilliant of humanity, mild madness, spontaneous solidarity and arduous resilience.
And the next time you see him starting downhill, without apparent brake but with unwavering faith... remember:
In this country, nothing really stops. We improvise, we horn, and we move forward. Inch-Allah.
