If hell has a name…..

So yesterday the Italian and I headed to Cotonou because he needed to renew his visa and do some other things. The bus trip was probably the worst one that I will ever take in my life, if I can help it.

The morning started with me running to the bus station because I saw the air-conditioned bus drive past us and we were hoping to get a spot. Once I arrived at the station, I realized that it had not stopped. Strike one. The only available transport to Cotonou seemed to be the line of taxi buses. My rule for taking a taxi bus is that we MUST sit in the front to escape being squeezed in with four other people in a single row and the bus must be direct, meaning without stops. Our requests were met and after a little price negotiation we were set. We were told we were leaving at that moment, but as we learned previously the Beninese idea of now and ours can vary by up to and more than an hour.

After waiting for the taxi to fill up a bit the taxi pulled off in a hurry. I was inside, but the Italian was not.  We drove past our house at full speed and I had no idea where we were going, not to mention Cotonou was in the opposite direction. I must admit I was a bit scared because I had no idea what was going on, then I realized he was going to pick up another six passengers. One man and a family of five pigs. Have you ever heard a pig shriek? Five pigs? As if I wasn’t traumatized enough at that point, I then had to watch and listen as they strapped these pigs to the roof a task that the pigs were not very keen on. After the pigs were securely tied to the roof we were on our way to retrieve the Italian and off to Cotonou we were, after first stopping for gas on the side of the road (yes, they sell gas on the side of the road).

Fifteen minutes in, we stopped. I was annoyed because we asked several times to confirm if the trip was direct. We were picking up two huge baskets to be delivered in Cotonou. I’m not sure what was inside but it took the full strength of five African men (I’m convinced that African men are the strongest on the planet, if you saw the things they lift without the help of machines you would be in agreement) to heave it to the top of the bus. After the packages were on top and I was assured by the wood above our heads the the roof would not collapse, we were on our way, again.

Then again we had to stop. This time there was a huge commotion on the road. It seemed there had been an accident. And there was a man laying under a red sheet that didn’t make it. When the sheet was lifted the thirty people on the side of the road scrambled to get a peek, I remained in the car. Even though there was enough room for cars to pass, the men that had taken control of the situation (not the police) would not let cars pass. When our taxi bus turned around, we were both scared that we had to take the long way to Cotonou but the driver took a sharp right turn and we drove through some fields, then villages before arriving back on the main road, having bypassed the accident. Once we stopped the third time to pick up more passengers we inquired, angrily about the so-called direct trip to Cotonou. He said that this was indeed a direct trip even though we stopped continuously. We still never understood his idea of direct.

After about eight stops and being harassed by numerous women selling things along the road we finally arrived in Cotonou after a five hour, 200 kilometer trip, covered in soot from the inside of the car, I hopped out and almost kissed the ground.