TRASH PILE IN KETOU - GOING TO STAGE

I needed to get to Ketou to get some information from a fellow volunteer before working stage, and despite the fact that it is pretty much a straight shot across the center of Benin, I found myself having a little trouble getting there.

After finding a willing zemidjan easily enough to travel the short distance of 40km from Azovè to Bohicon for the ridiculous price of 2.500f (it's only 700f to go to Lokossa, which is 60km away – its all about demand, never about logistical pricing) I was on my way, lucky to be ahead of the rain that was surely on its way. Riding along, my cell phone smashed up inside my helmet against my ear playing music because my mp3 player died, the zemi quickly pulled off to the side of the road and told me to get off. Fearing for a terrible delay I did so reluctantly as he first tipped the bike one way and then the other. Apparently this is some sort of gas 'saving' technique frequently practiced here (it wasn't the first time I'd seen it) though why he needed to do it I'm not sure because we filled up before we left – less than 25 km earlier. Satisfied he was getting all the gas possible we loaded back up and took off again. For approximately another 5km until we started a terrifying fishtail back and forth across one side of the highway to the other before finally skidding to a halt; once again we were on the side of the road. This time it was going to take more than a tipsy-turvy of the gas tank; our back tire was completely flattened. Good thing my driver knew how to operate on one wheel – how I'll never know since they are typically very unsafe drivers. I guess they just know how to maneuver with sub-par machinery. Lucky me.

With the moto out of commission and the rains coming on I was getting a little more than nervous I wasn't going to make it to the taxi in time to be on my way to Ketou. All the same there was nothing more to do than take my laden backpack while the huge duffelbag stayed on the moto's handlebars and we took off down the hill we were on in search of something to fix the tire. After walking down the hill and starting up a new one we passed an old man on a bike. My zemi driver asked about whatever it was he was looking for (in local language) and with dismay I saw the old man point in the direction from which we had just walked downhill. We'd been walking uphill again in the wrong direction. Now we were forced to turn around and walk up the hill we'd just descended to get back to where we were to begin with. My bags were heavy. I was planning on getting rid of a few things in Cotonou as well as enough food to stay away from my house for two and a half weeks if I got sick (I prefer to cook myself when possible) but back up the hill we went. Eventually we came across a few huts clumped together off the side of the road. Around the corner of one of them was a chicken coop made of bricks, a 'leaning v' chair (the most comfortable in Benin) and an old, old man doing snuff on the ground next to a decrepit wood toolbox full of greasy, well-worn tools. This was the tire guy thank goodness. As I slept in the v chair snuff-nose went to task taking off the tire and my zemi took over somewhere without a word. After a while the zemi returned, took the wheel the old man removed, and, again without a word, took off. I fell back asleep, safe in the fact that at least the rest of his moto is here and so is my stuff – he had to come back.

Sure enough, within and hour someone from the next town up came. “Zemidjanman said to take you to Bohicon taxi gare,” he said to me. “Did zemidjanman already pay you?” I asked. He nodded and I shrugged and climbed on. On my way again. Through the town of Lanta I saw my zemi at a vulcanisateur – the guy who fills the air in your tire and specifically looks for holes to repair – and waved, he looked thrilled to have followed through on his part of the commitment – at least they are, for the most part, a very trustworthy people. Not soon after crossing Lanta the rain started to sprinkle down a little. “Go faster,” I responded when the new driver told me the rain would be coming. I wasn't going to get stuck waiting for hours while the rain poured on in the middle of my 40km trip!! As he stopped for lack of gas I began to realize this was not just a possibility anymore; it was probable. Luckily we found a gas 'station' nearby, but not soon enough as we were forced off the road again in the face of drenching rain. Taking shelter under store front with at least four other drivers and a few assorted passerby we waiting for the rain to get worse before it got better. I just prayed my computer wasn't damaged from the rain.
Twenty to thirty minutes later, I really don't know – have you ever stood with strangers waiting for rain to stop? - I decided the rain looked lighter so we should try and make a run for it to the taxi station. Wading through the muddy flood, water laden with floating garbage halfway up my calves, we got lead the moto and my large bags back up to the highway and then were off. I was wrong, the rain was not letting up, and in fact seemed to worsen as we flew along through the potholes and debris on the road. Ultimately, however, wet, cold and possibly computerless and molding, I made it to the taxi station and was immediately unburdened and designated to a taxi awaiting only one more person before we could depart for Ketou. One more person? I could do that, I could wait, I needed to find phone credit anyway so that I could get directions from Ryan (the volunteer) on how to get to his house.

Credit, I found, was too far away and therefore out of my reach if I wanted to get going in this almost-ready-to-depart car. I returned to the taxi to get something to eat out of my bag to eat (it had been almost three hours since I left my house, only 45km away). I looked into the trunk, my eyes bulged, double-blinked, and my heart sank and thudded into my stomach as wrecking ball through a concrete wall – my stuff was gone.. nothing was in the trunk. My computer, my clothes, my food, my work, were gone. Flabbergasted, I looked up and franticly around me. Where could it have gone? I didn't see anyone running away, encumbered by my massive luggage. Where could it have gone? How could I have been so stupid? This was the stuff the stupid guide books talk about. But it was me, stupid, not the books. They were right. I stopped the panic a moment. Look for someone may have seen what happened. This is Benin – vigilantism persists throughout, they wouldn't stand for theft, even from a white person. There were four people sitting calm as grandmas on the concrete stoop next to the car. I gazed up, a questioning and fearful look in my eye, pointing to the trunk. Before I could utter the beginnings of a query, they burst into laughter and pointed behind me. There was the chauffeur, in a new taxi, with all my luggage in piled into the back with everyone else's belongings. Relief, and then humiliation, washed over me in a deluge as the four spectators went on laughing and mocking. I deserved it, I suppose, I wasn't paying attention, and I guess it was pretty funny, if it wasn't my world on the line.

Stuff sufficiently placed in vehicle, hip plastered to the side of said vehicle in a sentry-style watch position and the final person arrived, we were ready to go. Except the final person wasn't just a final person. It was five people. Admittedly, two were tiny bundles of person potential, but they were human and therefore counted as two, while the other three were about the age of 5 and therefore considered, by me, to be people that should have been counted when filling the spaces in the vehicle. The my extreme chagrin, the chauffeur did not agree with me and placed four people, plus one baby in the third row of the vehicle, four people, plus three babies in the middle row, and four people in the front (yes, a 12 year old girl was sitting, so inappropriately, on the stick shift). This was not as terrible as the ride down from Djougou, but almost even more infuriating because it's not what you would expect from the south of Benin. To add insult to injury, when I made a claim that this was inappropriate and, technically illegal (yes, Porto Novo, the political capital of Benin has declared it illegal to have more than three people in the back of a vehicle – though, inanely did not chose to extend that safety rule of 2 people to the front of a vehicle), I was met with the infuriating response, “but this is Africa – it's like this in Africa.” Somehow I can never accept that there are 50% of the population that complains of their situation, stating with an accusatory tone that there is money in America, but not here, then the other 50% (or perhaps one and the same all 100%) claiming that I should accept the ridiculous status quo that is “Africa” and stop trying to change the inadequacies that so frequently impede their “desired” progression into a viable economy and society of the 21st century.

I cried out, with an exaggerated conviction, “this is not acceptable,” but climbed obediently into the vehicle anyway. The chauffeur wasn't going to take a pay cut just because of me, and I needed to get out of there. Sadly, this is my battle. Defeating morals daily.

After only about an hour on the road, the car slowly filling with the exhaust fumes and the rain forcing the windows shut (the Beninese, and I suspect many Africans in general, HATE rain more than suffocation or gas poisoning), we stopped to let people out. Good. I stepped out to buy phone credit and returned to an all-but empty vehicle. We were waiting until the Muslims in the car were done praying. It was prayer-time and we weren't leaving this town of Cove until they were done. Great.. another business impediment – no working, traveling, anything, while it's prayer time, which happens five times a day. So we sat around, then set off driving through the town, up and down impassable routes, turning around and retracing our steps repeatedly, until we found a house to drop off the woman and her four children. At one point during out whirlwind journey I had to use the facilities. I asked the driver and immediately he perked up; he knew exactly where to take me. Thinking he knew someone in the neighborhood who would allow me to use their latrine I allowed myself to be led by the hand in a determinate walk away from the car, across the street, up to a huge tree, around the tree (is someone's front door here?) and came to rest at the back of the tree. I could see the car and people walking down the street, clear as day, from my very un-private tree spot. Driver, however, was satisfied and walked away, leaving me there to contemplate dropping my pants essentially on the side of the busy road. Sensing no alternative and the impending departure of my taxi, I hesitated only a moment more before quickly drop, squat, and releasing, staying my hand's automatic response to wave at people who saw me as they walked by. That was fun. Really cool tree, too.

Luckily, after our trip through wonderland, the Muslims were done praying and we were setting off once again. Thankful for the room, I stretched out in my seat and took in the final hour leg of the trip. That is, until the rains really began. Without trim in the door and a poor, bent frame I started to receive a small waterfall on my head and down my back. Wet again, I moved into the center of the car, next to another passenger, and lost my roomy comfort and felt the wet cold the rest of the trip, even the windows up couldn't prevent the rain coming in. What a trip.
Finally, at around 4pm, almost six hours after I left my house, I made it to Ketou. Just another trip in Benin. Why was I so surprised?

Luckily, Ketou is a nice, quiet town, with plenty of mosques and entertaining attractions. One attraction, in particular, is a huge pile of trash. Literally, trash.

The story goes that when Abomey (then the capital of Dahomey – Benin's predecessor) was warring with Ketou, then a part of Nigeria, the people of Ketou asked a local fetisher to help protect them from the invaders. The festisher gave them a fetish to guard the town, and the instruction to put everything they own on top of it to keep it safe from destruction. Well, everything they “owned” was their refuse, and so they dug up a hole, buried the fetish, then covered it with waste. Though, ultimately, Ketou became a part of Dahomey, then Benin, the fetish tradition continued and years of waste piled high upon the burial site of the fetish no one in existence today has seen. Some even speculate (foreigners) if a fetish truly exists beneath the pile of filth. Then, they climb it. Yes, many volunteers have made the trek up the trash pile, some even doing so barefooted. Many a staff infection has been developed that way, and yet I chose to hike the pile as well, with shoes on.

The way up was disgusting. There were peanut shells, bags of white goo that I can only hope to call yogurt someone didn't want to finish, small piles of animal or human feces, and other things. It is a vertical landfill in the town's backyard. But I made it; with the help of two young, barefooted (one boy pantless) children, who walked ahead of me to point the path so I didn't have to use my hands to climb up. Ugh! Making the top was actually fairly easy. I was pretty impressed with the view as well. Ketou really is a beautiful little town, too bad the best view of it is from a giant pile of waste. I had accomplished another one of Benin's big tourist attractions and that felt good. Now I had to get down. Now, that, was truly disgusting.

It was bad enough when I had to go up and up, but now I had to go down, which included a lot more slipping, sliding and downward glances at things I had missed on the way up. I won't mention the things I saw on the way down, but the pigs that got in my way and almost tripped me, didn't help matters when I tried to avoid looking where I was walking. Successfully at the bottom of the hill I made good work of scrubbing my feet clean. No staff infections for me.

Hope you enjoyed this one.