PART IV : RETURN TO BENIN

Leaving Dakar without sushi was painful, but I did it anyway.

20 FEBRUARY 2008

I arrived at the Club Atlantique on time and Liz was sleeping on a bench next to the entrance, waiting. We hung out, waited, Amy showed up to get her wallet then Evan and Aaron, but still no Erin (who’d been the most adamant about leaving at 9am). Tom and Danielle decided not to come, effectively ruining our 7-place taxi strategy for getting out quickly and cheaply.
At 10:45 we decided to go out and get Erin and took a taxi who wanted 1.000F CFA to go thisfar. We said 700F and took off at which point I asked if he had the 300F to make change for the 1.000F. First he ignored me, then said he didn’t have it so I resolved to give change only – then we saw Erin walking towards us. We told him to stop, several times, before he finally did. We asked if he wanted to take us all five to the station now that our previous mission was null. He declined on account of there is a rule against > 4 and we were 5. So Aaron handed him a 200F (we were still in sight of the club) and we got out.

The driver refused to open the trunk door to get out our luggage. He demanded the 700F though we hadn’t even gone more than 20 meters. He even pulled out the 300F he said didn’t exist to give in exchange for the 1.000F.

Aaron found the trunk release when the guy exited the cab and Erin immediately started pulling out bags. Liz joined in, but the driver slammed it shut against her back and then her arm where she was pinioned and held it while we continued to argue for our luggage. Our yelling very quickly attracted a series of construction workers, passerby, and a security guard (even a volunteer from Mauritania who I’m sure gives us a bad rep for all our arguing with taxis – on more than one occasion) Liz finally got her arm free and slapped the guy – who then had to be held back by four or so of the spectators.

Infighting began between the spectators and the driver who started picking up big clumps of rock to throw at people. The security guard finally seemed to agree with my explanation and even gave me the 300F back that I offered to appease the driver. Then we all got into a new taxi that finally agreed to take us all together. We were finally on the road to getting out of Dakar. Until it came to light that this new taxi couldn’t even turn because his steering was so terrible!! After asking several times whether or not he would be able to turn and he finally giving in. Then even HE ripped us off by promising the guy to whom he sold us that we would pay an extra 500F. It was just a bad, bad taxi experience all around. Third time’s a charm and we finally got to the taxi station where I broke my sunglasses getting in as the man behind me pressured me into the seat more quickly than I was prepared to move. As the driver was swerving all over the road to avoid the potholed crap highway on the way to our destination of Kidira I thought of all the things that are different in Dakar that aren’t in Cotonou: things such as the existence of horse or donkey-drawn carts; the need to pay before the taxi ride and for the entire taxi, not by the person; beggar children; flies all over; and no Milo anywhere!!! We reached the destination around 2:00a.m. and slept in the car in the taxi parking lot.

21 FEBRUARY 2008

Got in taxi #5 of ride home – easy enough, jump through the endless hoops to get across the border; get out, walk across the border, find the police station, get the same stamp we got earlier, walk back to the freeway, get back in the car and go 10 meters to another taxi station to wait for taxi #6.

Taxi #6, however, while we were stopped at the border, screamed at me to close the door as a bus passed this _______ far away. Of course I yelled back “why are you so rude?” outside the Malienne border office. Though he couldn’t understand my words – the tone was enough to spark a response in kind. He charged over to me as I got in the car and slammed the door after me so hard the window shattered all over me as I sat there, shocked. I had glass in my elbow for two days afterwards. As I sat there in shock, Aaron and the driver began to sweep out the glass surrounding me. Surprisingly (I think I was still in shock) I didn’t say anything except “ce n’est pas bonne, chauffeur” in a trembling “little” voice. Glass all removed, we got back into the car.
The chauffeur didn’t apologize and instead screamed at Liz as we drove away to leave her window rolled all the way down or else she’ll break it. The hot, dusty wind was bothering her eyes when it came in full blast from the highway so she rolled it back up half-way. Seeing this mutiny, the driver then careened off the road while attempting to roll it all the way up as her punishment for not acquiescing. Terrible, just terrible.

Taxi #7, however, made up for all of it. It was a short ride, from the racket lot of before, and thank God because the car was one pothole away from dissolving into oblivion. There was no floor - it was a prayer mat over the gaping hole to the road, the front driver and passenger seats were collapsing back into the back seats, the headliner was drooping down to touch the top of our heads and the engine exhaust was billowing into the cabin. As we stalled in front of a group of men sitting on the side of the road, Evan leaned out and asked "isn't this great? the worst car in Mali." The men could do nothing more than agree and gape. The best part was the pride our insane driver had in his vehicle. When I asked to take pictures, as Liz stood outside coughing from all the exhaust she inhaled, he posed in several positions throughout the vehicle - eat your heart out Car Magazine.
MALI BUS

The landscape is arid heat with black, rocky hills and black twisty dry trees, like they’re melting under the sun as their depraved roots seek out water from the parched below. Tufts of tall straw grass bleached and stick straight stand ready as God’s tinder box.
It’s so dry and I’m dried out so that my eyes can’t even water when the hot blasts of air hit my face through the windows, like opening an oven door 500 times an hour. Red dirt clings to where I have managed to sweat, my temples, my neck, hardens in defiance then cracks like day-old icing on my tired cake face.
We’re starting back to Bamako but I swear we’re driving from one form of Hell into another. But at least the bus is nice.

22 FEBRUARY 2008

Slept for four hours on the roof of a building we stayed near last time in Bamako. At least I was able to shower. It’s the home stretch – today we leave for Ouagadugou on STMB. Strapped for cash, I don’t know if we’ll try and stay the night in Ouaga for lasagna, grocercies, strawberries… hot chocolate.. mmmm…. Or keep going.

23 FEBRUARY 2008

Found out in Ouaga that Burkina Faso Peace Corps was on standfast and that Peace Corps Benin had been looking for us to evacuate back to Benin. Woops! We immediately went to the bureau in Ouaga to talk to their country director who didn’t necessary look pleased, or angry, to see us. She directed us back to their chauffeur who took us to the Hotel Crillon where we had to pay for a second night’s stay though we had only arrived at 3am that very morning and were forced to stay in the Peace Corps transit house so they could know where we were at all times. I hate spending extra money for no reason.
Staying the night at the transit house wasn’t so bad. We got to have lasagna after all. It’s good lasagna. We had one last, terrific meal, complete with ice cream desserts. How redundant, like a meal could be complete without desserts.

24 FEBRUARY 2008

The Burkina Faso PC chauffeur came to get us, and five other Benin English teaching volunteers (including my postmate, Jordan) who were all on holiday in Ouaga while we were out gallivanting around West Africa, and began to drive us to the border where our PC Benin Safety and Security Officer, Noel, would retrieve us. Driving along was cozy enough, reading, talking, spreading our goat cheese and crumbly, crumbly crackers all over the car. Then *bam* some of the luggage goes flying off the top of the car and into a nearby crowd of people – whether or not they were there before the white people’s luggage fell into the village or not I don’t know. Don’t worry, it was only my backpack. Everyone else’s stuff was securely packed in. Nothing was broken, luckily, except my faith in the Burkina Faso chauffeur, and I lost my face sunscreen, wet wipes and some other junk I can’t remember, probably medicine or mosquito repellent.
Some hours later we finally were able to get into the Peace Corps Benin ride and cruise on into Natitingou. It felt wonderful to finally be on the way home. It also felt wonderful to stay in Natitingou that night as we got to eat pizza, ice cream and watch all the movies I picked to watch (So I Married and Axe Murderer, Saved and Interview with a Vampire – Liz really picked that one).

25 FEBRUARY 2008

Liz and I finally took off the bus and got going home. I expected a smooth, familiar ride into Bohicon when SUDDENLY the in-ride movie came on. Can you imagine what the Gods of Bus Transport chose to signal the end the horror of all horrors of trips? That’s right, Chucky: Child’s Play. I HATE THAT FREAKIN MOVIE. I couldn’t focus on my book; I couldn’t get my music loud enough to drown out the movie I couldn’t watch. My gaze was limited to my immediate right or my immediate left. Liz started to twitch under my uncomfortable gaze. I spent the last leg of my long voyage in uncomfortable terror. And then it was over and Rambo II was on. I got home and was done.

I’m glad we had such a crazy adventure, but I have to admit, if I didn’t have my youth I would not have lasted as well as I did, which wasn’t all that well. Truth is, nothing really went terribly wrong. Expect for almost being declared a missing person and almost truly being a missing person, I think the trip was a supreme success. We went by taxi, horse cart, bus, ferry and train and we got there, represented Benin – in all our chain-smoking, beer drinking, shy and dorky cliquishness. No one died, no one was seriously harmed, and three fiercely opinionated and self-assured women didn’t blow up on one another. I’d say we had a very successful run at doing West Africa.

If you want any recommendations on how to do it better, however, I’d have to agree with the b*tch in the bashay and say, “Get your own ‘vrai’ vehicle and let someone else do the driving and stressing for you”. Be we are Peace Corps – hard as nails and we ain’t your average ‘yovos’.

LISTIE Mc. LISTERTON:

I ALWAYS appreciate little things you like to send me.

Allison Henderson

BP 126

Azove, Benin

Afrique de l'Ouest

Love,
Allison

SENEGAL PART III: IN THE LAND OF DAKAR

I am writing this by the light of the candles outside in my paillote (just recently built by amazing Super Helpful volunteer Tom and Mr. Fawgla of food sickness and sodabi fame) while Cal runs around in frantic circles chasing his own tail and kicking up a lot of dirt on my feet in the process. It feels like real exotic nights now our here in my little straw hut. If only I had some awesome Pacific island type seafood coming for dinner.

Back to reality and the voyage, however, and I’ll probably eat rice and spam for dinner (that’s some type of Pacific island food, right?).

FEBRUARY 14, 2008

It gets worse before it gets better.

What a swell Valentines’ Day this was. We left our disgusting room full of mosquitoes and got to Sangue bus depot around 6:30 am. At 10:00 am we finally left for Dakar. Let me go back a bit. After we got of the train late in the evening we tried to find a taxi into the center of town at Kayes, the town just outside the border between Mali and Senegal. Instead, we paid a solid 1.500 to go less than 2km to a taxi station in the middle of nowhere with no lights, no clients and no operating taxis going to the border tonight nor tomorrow for any reasonable price. We were going to have to stay the night in town and take a bus out the following morning, if at all possible, but first we had to track down another taxi to get us back into town. What a racket – literally – here we were in the middle of nowhere, unable to threaten walking if they didn’t give us a decent price so we were forced to take a terrible, terrible taxi ride for way more than we would have ever paid anywhere else (yes, even in America for the distance).

The first hotel which we had chosen through the guidebook was closed. Not just closed, but the water and electricity had been shut off for months, as the man idly sitting on the corner told us, but they would be more than willing to let us in if we didn’t mind no water nor electricity; in other words, if we didn’t mind squatting for the night. We did, so we went to choice number two. It was survivable, though overpriced for the mattress with no net and broken shower. Pay we did, however, though we were spending approximately six hours there. After having a nice dinner of Sprite for me and fries for Liz and Erin we all went to sleep without wasting a minute. Leaving the next morning showed that we had spent the night next to an African prison. That explained the harmonica I heard late the night before.

Back on the bus, the seat in front of me smelled of poop and crying children never ceased their squall. Kayes is the hottest town on the continent of Africa (literally, there was a study, it’s not just me) and we spent the hours between 11am and 2:30pm driving through at sitting at borders. The smell in front of me just gets worse in tandem with the increase in heat. Someone hadn’t wiped very well. A group of Nigerians got held up on our bus at the border because they don’t have their WHO yellow cards (vaccination proof). While we waited the next three hours for their release (after bribing the officials), I thought of how young the drivers are in Mali. VERY young. Unlike the seasoned road warriors of Beninese and Burkinabe standards these boys are stalling the buses (yep, and the “crew” plus some had to get out to push start the bus again with all of us in it!) and falling asleep at the wheel; this instead of chain smoking and cola nut-munching to get through the long, long nights.

We continued on to the Senegalese side where another group of unfortunates were being amassed to go back to Nigeria. They were just leaving, said a guard who noticed our curious glances. In another hot courtyard I ate the only thing available for lunch – cookies. After a time the first Nigerian group made it and we were finally getting back on the bus to leave when pandemonium broke out. First two men refused to get out of Liz and Erin’s seats where they had squatted during the long pause. The Nigerians came to our aid, but a fight nearly ensued when one side was trying to get on and the other was trying to get off. In the meantime my seat buddy (Mikale) was passing stools up to make room for me to sit which incited the man in front of us who claimed that doing that (inconveniencing a black man) for a white woman wasn’t good. At this point I was just hoping we got to Dakar before either someone died or the clutch went out – or I was married off to the 18 year-old Nigerian soccer player who had taken to calling all his friends so he could put the phone up to my face and tell me to speak to them after introducing me as his wife.

The next time we are able to get off the bus (darn it!) was for a variety of reasons, but we made sure it stuck this time. After sitting around for over an hour while the crew worked on a busted belt they refused to take down our luggage from the top of the bus so we could abandon ship. We 100% unwillingly got back on the poop-smell infested bus only to realize that after another seven hours on this stretch that we had actually only gone two hours worth of mileage due to our crappy driver’s handling of the pot-holed road (HUGE POTHOLES). Everyone was at the end of their rope with the lagging trip and one Gambian guy burst out insulting the quality of Nigeran English. Verbal war ensued – overheard were phrases like:
“F**k you, f**k your mother, f**k your brother, f**k your future family”
“Nigeria is the America of Africa”
“We don’t fight, so f**k you there, I said”
“If you’re talking about the vrai English of England or the vrai French of France, no one on this bus speaks either”
“White woman, be calm, the lights have been off”
And other great hits from the African Word Cup where Gambians, Ghanians, and Nigerians argued who spoke the better English and pleaded with the Dutch and German dudes and the American girls to be the mediators. We refused and enjoyed the show, until the driver turned off the cab lights – the only thing saving one Nigerian from pouncing on a cocky Ghanian.

At 6am – almost 24 hours from when we began – we were finally able to get our luggage from off the bus at a custom’s stop. Liz complained of the driver and crew stealing our luggage and forcing us to ride with them, which prolonged our trip and estimated eight hours longer than necessary, to the gendarme captain. As the captain hauled in the driver for questioning we hopped in another taxi and cut our loss. I wrote down my journal entry after that nightmare over an ice cream cone only a few hours from Dakar – hot chocolate, showers and food. The bus, I’m pretty sure, was still somewhere back on the potholed highway – if it left the custom’s station at all. My poor husband looked devastated in the glowing red of our tail lights.

FEBRUARY 15, 2008

After lunch we began walking to the taxi station where we could find a taxi to take us to Dakar. The guidebook said it was 1km away, but after approximately 3, we decided to take up a passing horse-drawn cart on his offer of a ride. We hopped off the horse cart and into a hearse, just another form of transportation I can now mark off my list – which is now dwindling down to rickshaws, pumpkin carriages and plenty of aviation options.

Getting to the taxi station in Dakar was easy, but getting from there to where we were supposed to meet the rest of our Beninese softball team was a bit more difficult. Given only the name of the club where we were to go, we searching vain for someone who knew where in the HUGE metropolis of Dakar the “American Club” might be located. What we did find, and this was arguably more valuable, was a taxi driver (perhaps the only) who could sing along with us to Proud Mary, spouted off random phrases in Wolof (local language) and repeatedly clucked and mutters “that’s those Senegalese for you,” when prompted by such instances as when we watched youth drive a truck into the side of a building while we sat in traffic for hours looking for this stupid club.

Got to Club Atlantique (aka American Club) where there were tennis courts, a pool, and a duty free with booze and a clubhouse with booze and people holding cups with booze like Coronas and Bloody Marys. Tom and I were staying with a girl from Peace Corps Senegal at a USAID private contractor’s place waaaay out of the way (which was bad for spending money on taxis) and next to the beach (which was good for pretty) in Ngor Virage. The wicked-genius couple (Senegalese husband who had Microsoft certificates as a computer programmer and mom with health-related degree from Johns Hopkins) had an adorable little girl who liked to stir my hot chocolate, show me her dresses and how she puts on lip gloss “like” me. She was well on the way to breaking hearts in Wolof, French and English. Lucky, lucky girl. They had a beeeeeautiful house in an ex-pat community where guards sleep in your garage at night and you need five keys to get in the front door. I slept on an air mattress that felt like the clouds surrounding Olympus.

16 FEBRUARY 2008

Got WAISTED. We suck at softball, but Aaron is great! Too bad he nailed our catcher, Ben, in the face from center field and gave him a black, purple, yellow and blood eye. Mauritania (those jerks) Pirates/Seaman whatever were so annoying with their cheers (“1-2-3 You’re Boring” from the girl dancing around in her underpants) but who were legitimately kicking our … so Tom finally told them to shutup. That’s how that game ended.

For dinner there was a party at the Marine’s house (yes, real Marines) where dates were auctioned off for the Peace Corps Senegal Gender and Development fund. That was lame, despite the tire swing and cool glow-in-the-dark horse shoe game, so we took a taxi downtown to a club called “Mex”. In many ways Dakar is a far superior city than Cotonou. For one thing, their ex-pat community lives on the beach; for another it’s a beach you can actually sit on without feeling like a tetanus shot is needed. People here exercise, as in running around in the street, on the beach, there is a lighthouse! There are clubs, clubs, clubs, like nice, clean-looking clubs. Not like the Soweto club in Cotonou where the whores hang out, but place you can go and dance and pay ridiculous Western prices for crap booze. It was wonderful! At “Mex” I immediately found the “secret” DJ booth that was this cool ring ladder up from the ladies’ room and asked him to play a few favorites. It was an alright night full of beeeeeAoooTIful Senegalese women. Got home around 5 a.m. and up again to play by 7:30. A.M.

17 FEBRUARY 2008

hot softball.

not feeling too well.

Got beat by a bunch of kids. Oh well. It was one of kid’s birthdays so the parents came over to thank us for losing “for them”.

We all bought tickets to go to this Indian buffet somewhere near Ngor Virage. This was good for me with taxi prices, except I had no idea where I was going so I took a taxi all the way to club just to go all the way back within walking distance of my home stay. It’s too bad the organizers of this buffet sold the tickets to all of us because the Indian buffet was understandably, frustratingly under-staffed, ill-prepared, and just overall in not a good state for the 100+ Peace Corps volunteers who showed up all at once to take advantage of all-you-can-eat. The staff put chairs outside to accommodate all of us who were showing up in droves for real food. The chairs began to sink into the soggy ground and we had trouble eating without laughing at the next person who tumbled out. As a sort of revenge on the tardiness and insufficiency of our VERY EXPENSIVE buffet ticket I tried to eat as much of the remaining food as possible (of course after everyone else had enough) and only succeeded in making myself intolerably sick. I sure showed them! Foregoing the evening’s festivities (a very wise decision I was told by my compatriots the following morning) I walked back to my home stay and slept again on the clouds of Olympus.

18 FEBRUARY 2008

I won at the banquet!! The final night in Dakar was a banquet for the end of the tournament. Another expensive meal where we had to stand in line, buffet style, while the host told us she bought all these wonderful red wines that come crashing down in a table folding accident and now all that’s left are terrible whites like Gewürztraminer. Who here likes grape juice? I bribed one server with my smile into giving us the last of a nearby table’s more tolerable Chenin Blanc. I wasn't going to let my evening with free wine go to waste. Or Waist?

This was our last day/night in Dakar and we wanted to make it special. Because we really were terrible at softball (we didn't come for the sports if you know what I mean) we weren't in the championships which meant we got to go play at Goree for the day. I know, that was a lot of rhyming. Goree is a little island off the coast of Dakar where slaves were held by the French before being shipped off to the Americas. It's still quite colorful and smacks of a sleepy French seaside town in Provence. Of course we had to make our mark on this historical site of cultural interest and blah, blah, blah, we did a BAND PHOTO SHOOT! The Benin Squirrels decided to just get all of our photos out of the way while we're young and fancy free, though we have yet to record an album; when the music starts flowing out of our orifices we'll be ready with album covers! Other interesting things that happened at Goree:

1) I defiled a historical artifact, of course;

2) I accidentally gave a crotch shot to the beggar man whose legs were all crippled and folded up and he was at perfect height for my seat; 3) a cat urinated all over my leg while I was eating lunch but I worked it good so I got a discount on the earrings the restaurant owner was selling; 4) Liz and I were criticized by an old French lady for not respecting the slaves when we were talking through one of the windows of the "slave house" (not a real slave house) because I was too cheap to pay the 50F to go inside and preferred to sit outside in the beautiful cactus garden; 5) we hung out with a volunteer from the Gambia named Alex. Cool guy, but he only took our pictures, so I can't really remember what he looks like. Hope we didn't make him feel like an outcast with all of our cool band pictures.

6) I sent postcards and got scolded for giving way to much money for postage. We left the picturesque isle of Goree after walking, walking, walking all up and down it in the late afternoon and took the ferry back to the dock in Dakar.

But I won! In fact, it wasn't just me! Out of the six people sitting at my table specifically, five of us won (four from Benin) I never usually win anything!! But here, in Dakar, I won an extra 10.000F worth of sushi I can’t eat because I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Tonight’s buffet line was for Ethiopian food. Delicious even when cold.

After Liz successfully sold my winning sushi ticket to a nearby ex-pat, we went to the after party where I heard two or three songs I knew or liked. It was a fun escape from our reality and I’m so glad we made our trek out to Dakar for this, dancing and drinking poolside. I tried to put it out of my head that tomorrow signaled the beginning of the end: the return to Benin.

Stay tuned for Part IV: The Return to Benin.

Love,
Allison