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