Cotonou, stilt villages, and lots of transport

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We arrived in Cotonou and got dropped off at the main market during rush hour. Then followed the most terrifying moto taxi ride of my life. The driver weaved between cars that I thought were going to hit each other, at one point I actually put my hand on the hood of a car I thought was going to hit us. I could see, though, that if he hadn’t driven like a maniac we would never have gotten anywhere, traffic was hardly moving.

We met up with some Benin PCVs at their bureau who pointed us to an affordable hotel and some cheap food. We had a couple of days to explore the huge main market, the artisan’s market, the restaurants, and the nightlife. Our favorite spot was the Musée Zinsou, a shining new modern art gallery that currently featured the work of a Malian photographer named Malick Sidibé. Sidibé began as an apprentice in a photo shop where people came to have portraits taken. He soon became a photographer and started capturing the culture of Bamako’s youth in the 60’s and 70’s. There were dozens of pictures of teenage Malians dancing the twist or posing with a James Brown record while wearing bell bottoms and platform shoes. Who knew that culture made it all the way to Mali?

The museum was particularly impressive because admission was free, and every day there were free movies for kids in a small theater. There was a modern classroom where the walls were lined with kid’s paintings. They hold art classes for kids twice a week, and the classes are cheap enough to be accessible to almost anyone. The exhibit also featured a mock 60’s portrait studio and an array of costumes so visitors could dress up and have their pictures taken.

Apparently the museum is supported by donations and was founded by a philanthropic artist who wanted to make art accessible to the people. She also opened an art school outside of Cotonou. The museum was amazing and I was so impressed and inspired by the philanthropic effort. I also very much enjoyed the real cappuccino in the café and the high-quality artisanal goods in the boutique.

It was just a short trip out of Cotonou to the incredible stilt villages at Ganvié. At a port on the shore of Lake Nokoue we hired a dugout canoe and a guide to take us 8 km across the water to the village. On the way we passed lots of fisherman and other canoes carrying goods between the market on land and the market in Ganvié.

Ganvié has 30,000 residents very little dry land. Every single building rests on stilts about a meter above the lake’s surface. There are schools, shops, a day care, and even a large fancy hotel for hosting important visitors, all propped up on crooked sticks. Everyone gets around by canoe and learns to swim at a young age. Kids run errands to the water tower to fill jugs with potable water. Women assemble at the floating market with canoes full of goods for sale.

The village was established on the lake during the days of tribal warfare and the slave trade. The lake offered excellent protection from invading tribes since religious beliefs prevented the enemy soldiers from entering the water.

Ganvié’s economy is based on fishing. Instead of each family having a field, each family has a section of the lake that they fence off. Inside they place leaves and branches, which, as they rot, attract fish. Young boys in dugout canoes have several methods of catching fish with different nets and lines. What isn’t eaten is taken by the women to be sold in the markets onshore, where other goods are purchased and brought back to the village.

As we paddled back to the port in the late afternoon we passed people in canoes who were returning from the onshore markets. On this return trip they put up colorful sails and rode the wind home.

When we had to leave Cotonou, Meg had to get back to Ouaga ASAP. So we booked a direct bus all the way from Cotonou to Ouaga. The bus actually continued through Bobo and up to Bamako, Mali, which would have to be nearly a 40 hour trip. I would get off the bus in Fada, Burkina Faso, about 4 h after the Burkina border. Meg would continue to Bobo, which for her was more than a 24-hour trip on a crowded, hot, dirty, slow, awful bus.

At the gare in Cotonou we were rushed onto the bus and made to pay too much for our baggage. Then the bus sat still in the sun for nearly an hour, and the windows didn’t open. I thought I would suffocate. But finally the bus began to move and we got a little air through those hatches in the roof. We left just in time for rush hour and it was dark by the time the bus crawled out of Cotonou. Two hours later it broke down.

Sitting in the dark on the roadside in the middle of nowhere, I wondered why no one ever complains when transport breaks down like this. C’est l’Afrique, they tell us. I know, I know, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have made sure the bus was working before we left Cotonou, where parts are available. I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat on the side of the road while someone goes back to town to get a spare tire. Just bring a spare tire. You get a flat on every trip. You know you will need a spare tire. Yet since no one ever complains the transporters don’t feel compelled to improve their services.

This time we watched while someone rubbed something metal across the cement for about an hour or two, apparently they were filing something to make a part fit. It is also not uncommon to repair vehicles using sticks and ropes and other things collected from the side of the road. It is either resourceful or appalling, I’m not sure anymore.

It took about three hours to get the bus running again, and we continued, miraculously, without any more major breakdowns. As we approached the border the next morning, one of the bus workers came around collecting 500 francs from each passenger. This is not normal. All tolls and other fees are included in the price of the ticket. When I asked what the 500 francs were for, he told me it was for the stamp in your passport at the border. This was clearly made up. I replied that we had entered and exited Burkina several times and had never paid for a passport stamp. I refused to pay. Avoiding a scene, he quietly told us we could just pay when we got out at the border.

What amazed me was how all of the other passengers hardly questioned the fake fee. A few asked about it but then gave up and paid. The Burkinabe passengers were not even using passports, just ID cards, so there would be no stamp involved. When confronted with this fact, the crooked transport worker fumbled a little and said he didn’t know what the money was for. Then the passenger paid him anyway!

When we got to the border we were not charged any 500 cfa fee. We didn’t pay anything, as usual. I’m pretty sure the money went directly into that workers pocket. A Nigerian man sitting near us overheard us talking about it and caught on. We all let it go until a few hours later, when the same man came around collecting 1000 francs from each passenger.

“What is this for??” our Nigerian friend demanded. The worker said something about it being a toll for the bus to pass through Fada. This was also clearly fake. I replied that we had passed through Fada plenty of times and had never paid anything. I refused to pay. So did our Nigerian friend. So did everyone sitting behind me on the bus. And the people in front of me who had already paid began to demand their money back. And I take pride in this accomplishment, this mini-revolution. In two years it has been my only victory over the evil transportation system that has screwed me over so many times.

I got off the bus in Fada and Meg continued to Bobo. She told me later that the passengers were yelling for a few hours and the guy didn’t ask for any more money. Other than that there were no more problems, except when it started to rain and the hatches on the ceiling wouldn’t close so everyone got soaked. But that’s normal. C’est l’Afrique.

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