Small Victories in the Bush

Yesterday I made a point of being difficult as possible as I was packed into the backseat of a taxi tottering back from Djougou. As the driver slammed shut the door I protested, "Chaffeur, this car here, it's a five place. Not a nine place. Now with nine people there, this is dangerous." He shrugged and offered the common response to any foreign complaint, "This is Africa." I didn't let him off that easy. "It is not Africa. It's Benin. You think that in Ghana and Nigeria the chaffeurs put the people in the taxis like this? Absolutely not. It's not like this in all of Africa. It's only like this in Benin. Because the chaffeurs want to eat money. They are bandits. They bouf." (Bouf means to be gluttonous, it can be used for food or for money- it's especially used for bribes) I shoved my hand to my mouth to make my point.

A chorus of voices rang out in agreement, complaining that they shouldn't have to be made to sit like spoons in a drawer. Especially, as one woman pointed out, the old mamas in the backseat, hunched over, their tiny backs spindled awkwardly as they rested against the seat in front of them. "It's us who give you money, chaffeur. It is not you who must decide if there is a place for another person. We are the boss. Not you." The chaffeur started explaining that he doesn't make a lot of money, that with the price of gas and the "taxes" (bribes) he must pay, he only makes five mille (ten dollars) to go from Djougou to Bassila. I was outraged that he would dare to tell me that wasn't enough money. That's more money than even I make. I have to pay him three dollars, an entire day's wage, to go from Djougou to Bassila, typically sharing my seat in the front with some stranger, the stickshift awkwardly beneath me, and stop in every small village- sweating in the hot sun. I don't know why, but I couldn't just leave him alone.

I told him that every day there are buses that go from Cotonou to Nati, and that they are less expensive. That in a bus, you have your own place and you don't need to share your seat. That one day, there will be no taxis because there will be enough buses and everyone will know that the bus is better than a taxi because the driver isn't greedy.

The little mama next to me began whimpering a little, which infuriated me further. My legs cramping, I stood up, with half of my body out the window, and sat on the door. My legs and waist rested firmly in the car. I motioned to the mama to rest back against the seat where my back had been. It was far more comfortable up there on the door, my body out the window. The taxi was an old Peugeout, and sputtered at about 35-40 mph. It didn't feel dangerous. The chaffeur started yelling at me, telling me to get back in the car. I refused. The mama looked worried but smiled at me, perhaps grateful for the opportunity to rest.

And so I stayed there. Big trucks rolled by, the men on top of them yelling out, "Heyyyy Batouri!" I hummed quietly to myself and stared at people staring at me. I thought about grabbing my moto helmet and wondering if this was at all against Peace Corps regulations. At the next petit village one of the marche mamas who shared the three place backseat with the other seven people, including two children relegated to laps, got out and began unloading her chickens and cement sacks from the back of the taxi. The chaffuer got out of the car and stared down at me. I met his eyes and didn't dare blink. He told me to get back in the car. I told him I would only get back in the car if he promised not to put anyone else in the back seat. That five people was too many. Four people and two children were enough. He stared at me a moment, then shook his head and sighed, "Batouri...". I shrugged. I was pretty happy sitting up there, and it didn't matter to me if he kicked me out of the taxi entirely- which I knew he wouldn't do because he wanted my money. "On y va?" I asked. "Yes, let's go." I got back in the car, my face a slightly different color than the rest of my body from the dust. The ladies in the back seat looked satisfied, but I knew they were thinking I was absolutely crazy.

And to a degree, I was a little crazy. It's absolutely acceptable and common practice to put nine people in a five person car. Four up front, five in the back. Somedays though, I don't want to deal with it. It wasn't even so much about my comfort, although that had something to do with it, but the fact that this little old lady was visibly in pain by the way we were crammed in together. It was the idea that the passenger is at the mercy of the driver. It was that we were women and relegated to the back of the bus, as it were. I don't usually take it upon myself to yell at Beniniese people and argue with them, because I know that it won't make any discernible difference. However, sometimes you just want to pick a fight. I chose that taxi driver as my opponent.

And I won.