Design that Matters Field Journal

Does this Taxi Stop for Chickens?

We set out after breakfast from our Hotel in Grand Popo on our way to Ouidah, a small town about 25km east - also known as the voodoo center of Benin. To get to the main road, where we had the best chance of flagging down a taxi on its way between Togo and Cotonou, we had to hop on the back of a zemidjan - a moped taxi. Since there was only one zemidjan in sight, the driver convinced us he could take two of us…even though Tim looked incredibly skeptical.

Later that day we had a zemidjan driver in Ouidah that claimed he could carry 4 passengers or even 5 petit passengers! We quickly learned that zemidjan drivers are adept at handling all kinds of passengers - grande and petit (even little babies ride on the back of zemidjans wrapped in pagnas around their mother's back) and all kinds of baggage - including produce, bags of rice, household goods, firewood, tables….

Anyway, we were still new to the zemidjan experience at that point and without another zemidjan in sight, and the prospect of the long hot dusty walk to the main road, we decided to take our chances.

The ride was most difficult for Tim as he sat on the back and had to cling desperately to the seat. I was afraid we'd hit a big bump and loose him off the back of the zemidjan - but miraculously this didn't happen. Slightly wind blown and relieved, we arrived at the main road and paid our zemidjan driver who quickly sped off to find more people in need of a lift. Now all we needed was a bush taxi going in our direction.

Here is Tim on the side of the road waiting to flag down a taxi heading in our direction.

Unfortunately all the cars going in our direction looked like they were relics from the sixities - rather disheveled and kind of falling apart. It didn't take long before one of these cars rambled to a halt in front of us. Doors flew open, the driver (dressed entirely in olive green) jumped out and there was frantic discussion back and forth in both French and the local language. A few bags and people switched places, one passenger departed and then the driver indicated that we had better hurry up and get in like he might just leave without us. Two seats had opened up in the second row - apparently for us. We negotiated a price to Ouidah, then piled in, and we were all off.

Our bush taxi - also called a "septplace" in some W. African countries (since it technically seats seven people, two in the front with the driver, 3 on the middle bench, and two on the back bench) - was an old Peugot. The odometer read over 210,000 miles but it had stopped turning long ago, probably many thousands of miles ago. Every surface inside of the car was covered in a reddish-brown dust, many parts were missing, and the seats were all saggy and worn. All the windows were rolled down - it was a pleasant breeze - which was lucky because as far as I could tell there was no way to roll up the windows. There were no handles. There were also no door handles or locks - just rusty gaps in the door. I was amazed that the car held together over 40 mph - it seemed as if we went too fast or hit a bump the wrong way parts might just fly off and we'd be left with just a Peugot frame and some wheels.

The one thing I'd noticed that did function in every automobile in W. Africa is the horn. A loud horn is essential (unlike door handles) on anything that travels over 5mph. Beeeep, beep, beep! Women carrying firewood, cars, mopeds, goats, cows, chickens are all blasted out of the way with the aggressive and often abused sound of the car horn.

Our driver was a jolly fellow, with a round face, contagious smile and mischievous eyes. We quickly learned that seven was not the limit to the number of passengers that could fit in his Peugot. And as captive passengers on this journey he decided we all had plenty of time to join him on a few little errands on the way. Our first stop, 3 minutes down the road, was for fuel. There was a lady selling fuel in various sized glass bottles a top a small wooden table on the side of the road. Our driver hoped out, poured a bottle of fuel into the car, took a leak off the side of the road, and exchanged pleasantries with the nice lady selling the fuel. I would guess this was a regular stop for him by the way they joked back and forth and laughed like old friends.

A typical fuel stand on the side of the road.

Following our fuel stop we started acquiring more passengers and assorted baggage. An old woman, perhaps on her way to a market in the next village, slid into the front seat. Then we stopped at a cluster of mud brick buildings down the road where some young kids stood out front selling firewood. The driver started yanking bundles from a couple of stacks and tossed at least eight of them on the roof of the Peugot. I have no idea how they stayed up there as we swerved off down the road - but they did.

We picked up another lady with a little girl, who joined us in the second row..and then two young guys and a young woman. We now had 9 passengers and 2 small infants squeezed into our ramshackle Puegot. Suddenly we veered over to stop at a tomato stand. Both the driver and the young woman in the front got out to buy a few bags of tomatoes…the two woman in the back with the little baby voiced their impatience with our jolly olive green driver…" chauffer…" they called out expressing the exasperation with all his shopping errands but knowing there was little they could do about it.

Still, at least we didn't stop for chickens. We did pass a taxi on our way loaded with chickens on the roof! I couldn't really tell if they were alive or dead or perhaps just in a state of shock at traveling upside down tied to the roof of a car.

Back on the road again, it wasn't long before we encountered a police check. There were a few wooden barricades in the road and some uniformed police men with rifles wandering around looking official but slightly out of place. A few hundred meters before the police check, another taxi traveling in the opposite direction had flashed his brights and our driver had pulled out a red plastic taxi sign from a compartment in the dash. He plunked it on the roof and, with the plug from the taxi sign dangling by a short cord into the drivers window, we made our way past the police check. A few hundred yards past the police check, the driver took a quick look in the broken rearview mirror and, confident that he was out of sight, pulled the sign back down and tossed it back into the shelf in the dash.

As we got closer to Ouidah there was more traffic on the road - other ancient bush taxis, trucks and mopeds. There were times when the thick black clouds of exhaust became overwhelming, however rolling up the window to avoid excessive inhalation was not an option. I tried to hold my breathe in the thick of it…but it was impossible to avoid breathing in the heavy acidic fumes that shrouded the road.

At last we reached Ouidah. Our driver pulled over to let us off on the side of the street in the middle of a mob of young boys. They crowded around us to see where we wanted to go, while Tim pulled out our CFA to pay the driver. Unfortunately, the driver had no change (he'd probably spent it all on tomatoes and firewood) and so he took the rest of his fare from one of the kids standing around and drove off. We were now obliged to pay back this kid. We negotiated a zemidjan ride from him and his friend for the two us to get us to the center of town. And off we were again, traveling African style, into the voodoo capital of Benin.

Posted by Elizabeth Bruce at August 11, 2003 02:34 PM