Nothing is easy. Since arriving to Benin I have slowly become acquainted with the country’s transportation system, and after last weekends Post-Visit I feel fairly certain I can give, to say the least, an entertaining account of how things work.
Week 1: How many people can you really fit in a van?
During our first week in Cotonou, Benin, we were shuttled to the Bureau in white vans. The vans in retrospect are very comfortable in comparison to the vans I have experienced since arriving in Porto-Novo, Benin. Although neither types are air-conditioned; a luxury I thought I would miss more. On the occasions where we pile into the van there was always a few minutes where we thought we might not have to squeeze five to a seat. We were always mistaken. Needless to say you can fit at least 30 people in a van.
Week 1: Exposure to Zemis
Benin is the only country where Peace Corps volunteers are allowed to ride on motorcycles—we are forbidden to drive them ourselves of course. We are also required to wear helmets while doing so, and the only people who do so. It is an unavoidable mode of transportation, and can be enjoyable on some levels. Zemi is the term used for the motos you pay for, so think like a taxi in the United States, except there is nothing keeping track of the fare. You call over a zemi by waving and closing your hand, and saying, “K-K-No.” Then, like with everything in Benin, you saluer; say hello, ask how they are, and maybe make a joke if your French is good enough, which mine is not. Then you tell them where you are going, and ask how much it will cost. Never take the price they over. It is a lie. Part of the life here is discouter-ing. You typically say the price is too high and give a counter offer. Never pay the zemi driver until you get to your destination. On several occasions I have witnessed arguments with the zemi drivers. Typically it is because they refuse to give you change and will take more money than was previously arranged.
Week 2 and 3: People still walk and bike
It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I truly started missing my car. Even writing that sentence seems odd. Owning and driving a car seems like a distant memory and at times almost inconceivable. It was after a long day, I just thought of how nice it would be to get in my old Honda CR-V and just drive home. I dare say, even the thought of traffic seems enticing, just for the pure normalcy that I can’t hear someone yelling for my attention if I am in a car. I did find last Friday refreshing—walking home in a downpour, not as many people were out on the streets, so the cries of Yovo were diminished.
I bike almost everyday to school. In total I bike at least 20 minutes a day. Several volunteers refuse to ride their bikes. Last weekend, our friend Erin coaxed us in into a twenty minute walk, instead of a five to ten minute bike ride. After riding my bike for the first time, I almost became one of those volunteers. Since then I have come accustomed to riding my bike. I notice the honking less, and in some cases even pass other motos. I take command of my right to the road, just like everyone else.
Now on occasion people here do also own bikes. However, they do not have a mountain bike like the one supplied by the Peace Corps. Instead they have bikes without any gears that appear to be at least twenty, if not thirty years old. The thirty years old, admittedly is an exaggeration. When I was in Natitingou, I began to notice that the people looked odd while they rode bikes. I can only compare it to an awkward circus act. I noted this observation to another volunteer. He explained, as I suspected, no one was really riding the correct bike size. Another point; they pedal slowly and awkwardly, because they are afraid to pedal too hard, for fear that the chain will break.
Week 4: Traveling to Materi and Back
I have one of the more northern posts in Benin. On my post visit I was required to stay overnight. I logged a total of 22 hours of travel within a four day span—keep in mind I only travelled in Benin, which is the equivalent in square mileage to Pennsylvania.
4 a.m.- Wake-up and get ready: I need to be at Davie by 5 a.m. to be taken in a Peace Corps shuttle to L’Hotel Capitale. From the hotel we (three other stagiers) will take a taxi with our directors to Cotonou, which is forty minutes or more minutes away.
6 a.m. – We depart from Cotonou to Porto-Novo. As usual the shuttle left Davie left. It was expected.
6:50 a.m. – We arrive in Cotonou at a random gas station, where there is a bus. We are of course unsure if this is the bus we need to take. We get out of the taxi and stand. The bus leaves. I put my bags down for a second to give my back a break. A lady comes up and starts lurking. The school director tells her to go away. She stays.
7 a.m. – We are told to get into another taxi. After waiting for 15 or so minutes the directors have realized we are not at the correct stop for our bus.
7:30 a.m. – At a second bus stop. We get out of the taxi. We stand for five minutes. I feel like the goats in Benin trying to cross the road, as a bus comes into the parking load, but I don’t know where to stand to not be in the way. The bus we were supposed to take has left.
8 a.m. – We don’t know the correct place to catch the bus, but we have the bus drivers number. The bus stops, and waits for us to arrive. Getting on to the bus, another volunteer hits almost every person with the screening attached to her backpack that will be used at her post to keep bugs out of her house. She and I have to sit in the very back of the bus. I sit next down to a family with a year old baby. The baby cries, the mom breast feeds. As the trip continues this conditional response continues. Each time the woman cares less and less about hiding the fact that she is breastfeeding.
Many many hours on a bus – We stop at some point. I want to eat, but as soon as I see the swarms of vendors outside the bus waiting for business, I decide I can survive on a granola bar I brought. I try to sleep on the bus. The breastfeeding baby spills water on me. The bus has TVs. They first go through a series of music videos that remind me of the Indian music video Tu-Knock (I don’t know if that is spelled correctly). The animation is the same. After the videos we get short clips of a show in a barber shop. The women yell a lot, and at times I feel like maybe it is a re-run of Flavor of Love. Sometime after lunch are bus comes to a halt. We are told to get off the bus. There is a problem in the village; turns out the village is on strike, which equates to closing down the road. We are later told that the village was promised electricity a year ago, and today was the day they took a stand on the issue. We sit down and a local police official strikes up a conversation with us. He is really cool, and knows about the Peace Corps. Then as he leaves he asks if I would be his wife. He is no longer really cool. A few hours later we are back on the road.
As we reached Natitingou, the roads became smoother, and we were surrounded by expansive mountains and just greenery for miles and miles. I feel silly trying to write about how beautfil it looked. I can only liken the experience to the time I visited the Grand Canyon. I remember feeling like for the first time I realized justhow small I was in comparison to the rest of the world. What makes up my material existence is insignificant. It was in this moment that I felt I am trully in Africa, or at least the Africa I had imagined.
After staying overnight, the next day I take a taxi for an hour, and then a moto for another hour and finally I reach Materi. In another two days I have to turn around and repeat.
Saturday 6:30 a.m. – Once again a group of us is travelling together. We catch a bus at 7 a.m. They find it strange that we want to keep our bags with us on the bus. The bus we take this time is air conditioned. We don’t sit by any babies. No villages are on strike today. That morning, however, I woke with a fever, so I drank tons of water to hydrate myself. Six hours later we stop for a bathroom break, unfortunately it is only a stop convenient for men, i.e. the side of the road. After repeated looks from a man in a green boomba, I decide that I really enjoy being judged all the time. At 8 a.m. I notice the man across from me eating spaghetti out of a black plastic bag. He is using his hands. I can judge too.
When we finally stop for food, I go to the bathroom. I go to the back of a person’s yard and behind two sheets of metal I pee on slabs of broken cement that was shaped in hearts. Lucky for me, it was the longest pee of my life. Tom Hanks in League of Their Own has nothing on me.
Once we arrive in Cotonou, I realize I have lost my wallet. Fortunately I only lost 900 CFA, but I am not happy about it either way. We take a zemi to catch a taxi to Porto-Novo. The zemis refuse to discouter. We find a taxi. The short ride to Porto-Novo takes much longer, because there is an accident. The other volunteers ponder how life insurance works here. I guess they don’t really have it here. Just like they don’t have taxes, and running water—everyone does own a cell phone though. Once in Porto-Novo are taxi is crowded by people asking for money. I say No, Merci to one man. He slams the door in my face. I refuse to zemi home, and take the extra thirty minute walk. I trip on my own feet.
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