holdin' hands

Logan doesn’t much like to hold my hand.  That’s okay though: the entire rest of the country seems up for it.  Something I find most difficult living in Benin is trying to cross the street.  The other day, after standing for awhile worrying over the right moment to step, a not-too-sketchy and very nice young man grabbed my hand and pulled me safely across.  Upon arrival, all he asked for return was my hand in marriage!

You would think after living in other African countries and in India for so long I would be used to the way traffic moves here, but I just can’t seem to figure it out.  Luckily I have plenty of observation time to do so now, as it takes me between 7 and 13 minutes to get the courage up to sprint from one side of the street to other.  

First you have the regular cars.  Mostly tinny old box-like cars that have been running for decades and will continue to run for the next couple.  They cruise around effortlessly, owning the road.  It is certainly a status symbol to have a set of four wheels here.  

But the cars are not what throw me.  It’s the so called “zems”, or moto’s, chasing each other around that make me nervous.  In a seemingly endless race they swerve in and out of any lane, sidewalk, or parking lot they think will get them wherever they are going the quickest.  They are also my main source of transportation.  Instead of hailing a taxi, the easiest way to get around Cotonou is jumping on the back of some dude’s moto.  Party of two?  He’ll take you both.  Geared up in florescent yellow jerseys, these zem drivers are everywhere, and for 60 cents he will take you just about anywhere, quickly.  You better have your wits about you though.  Just because they are your hired ride doesn’t mean they are going to keep you comfortable.  I spend my rides with one hand clutching the bike and the other firmly holding my driver’s shoulder.  I’m not sure if that is correct fomba (culture…gotta keep some ‘gasy in here), but that is my method.  In fact, Cotonou is the only place I have ever been in a vehicular accident (knock knock knock).  It was my first day in Cotonou (ten months ago) ago and first thing, Logan throws me on a moto by myself and, whilst trying to pass me, let’s his driver hit mine.  Maybe not his fault, but all I am saying is that a city so full of roundabouts should not be filling them with motorcycles that don’t believe in lanes.  

Don’t worry Mom, I am wearing my helmet.  

So all of these vehicles rage the streets of Cotonou and have no sense of pedestrian rights.  The walker is at the bottom of the caste here.  There is really no place for the self-righteous pedestrian, something that most Americans inherently are.  I forget this sometime and will continue walking expecting cars or motos to yield to me.  As a starkly white woman, this does work better in my favor than it would for someone who does not stick out so much.  But I am growing more and more aware that this will not keep working out in my favor.  I either need to join the world on wheels or be ever-so-thoughtful about where I place my boots.  

Which is why I hesitated slightly when proposed to the other day.  Perhaps all I need is a good-lookin’ Beninese dude to walk me across streets for the rest of my time here.  I don’t much like giving up such an independence as walking on my own, but for the sake of stayin’ on my feet it might be worth it.