Motorcycle Taxis

I have spent many hours over the past sixteen months staring at the back of a black person’s head. This is a natural consequence of living in a sub-Saharan African country in which motorcycle taxis are a primary mode of transportation. And it actually is quite intriguing. Now, before you go labeling me as “slow,” or “easily entertained,” let me point out that most people never focus on the back of any person’s head. I had plenty of time in school and in movie theaters to study the back of people’s heads, but there was always something more important further on in my line of vision.

Motorcycles are quite dangerous, with roads being the way they are here. (Which is to mean, oftentimes, nonexistent) Rides range from, “This pavement is relatively smooth,” to “There is not a medical facility within 100 kilometers that won’t determine it’s best to treat me by bleeding me.” I often thank God for the motorcycle helmet issued by Peace Corps. It’s comforting to know that if I smash my head up, at least I won’t die, I’ll only be a vegetable for the rest of my life.

To take my mind off of the possibility of impending death, I have developed several games to play while I am on the back of motos. These include “Write Your Own Mental Will,” “How Long Will You Spend in Purgatory,” and “Which Tree Would Be The Most Fun To Smash Into.”

I had plenty of opportunity to play these games when riding with the previous president of artisans in Ouesse. We would drive out to a village 25 kilometers away through dirt roads, streams, and sand, and he would be flying the whole time. Trouble was, if you tried to tell him to go a little slower, he would take it as a challenge and speed up. One time, we were going out to a village called Akpero, and were on a small sand path approaching the village. There was another motorcycle coming toward us, and neither motorcycle felt as though it ought to yield. This often tends to cause problems. At the very end as horns were blaring, the president of artisans swerved our moto out of the way, where we could a sand pit and nearly went down. My elbow was only inches from hitting the ground before he and the sand righted the moto. The president laughed nervously as he looked back and said, “They were supposed to yield.” My initial reaction was, “Bull#%&^!”

A new president of artisans was elected in June, so now when I ride out to villages, he’s the one to drive me. He’s not nearly the speed demon the other president was, but he’s a little more absent-minded. He’s the kind of guy who will drive into a ditch going 5 miles an hour because he was waving at someone on the side of the road. I’m all for that kind of guy, though, considering the driver I had before.

All in all, though, Benin is a pretty safe place. People are nice and are always willing to help you out to make sure you don’t put yourself in a dangerous position. Although sometimes, when they have a moto, they enjoy putting you in a dangerous position!