Off to Benin

“Feel free to be with me… I am leaving you in the hands of the Almighty God, may he get us there safely” The bus driver announces before we take off.

“Should we pray!” The woman behind me calls out and then proceeds to lead the bus in a painfully long prayer. I was slightly unnerved, first the doctor says he cannot do anything for David Edem, it was ‘in God’s hands’ and now the bus driver has relinquished all responsibility as well.

“May all the passengers soak in the blood of Jesus” the woman’s prayer continues.

Jesus Christ! Now images of blood soaked passengers – me that is – fill my mind as I picture the bus plunging off a cliff, the driver with no hands on the steering wheel declaring ‘I didn’t kill all these people, the wheel was in Gods hands!’

I spent the rest of the bus trip trying to cram as much French in my head as possible, all from a little guide book covering a heap of different African languages, leaving only 5 pages on each.

Parley voo ongley? (Do you speak English)

Zhen e kom pron pa (I don’t understand you)

Zhey eyt vyoley! (I’ve been raped. (This really was one of the sentences in the book!))

The bus dropped me off in the centre of Cotonou, the capital of Benin.  I was the only passenger disembarking as the rest went on to Nigeria. Now the problem was always going to be that I had no local currency, the first thing I needed to do was find a bank. I had Googled it before I left Ghana, and the only bank in Benin to take MasterCard or Maestro was Bank Atlantique.. I needed to find a Bank Atlantique.

I waved down a zemi-john (a motorcycle taxi) and climbed on the back with my pack. “Bank Atlantique” I repeated until eventually he seemed to understand.

We arrive at Bank Atlantique. The ATM doesn’t work.

I turn to the driver and try to tell him to take me to another Bank Atlantique, but he is clearly confused. I wave my card and imitate putting it into the ATM and wave my hands around a few more times in a vain attempt at explaining the situation. Eventually he understands and we try another Bank Atlantique.

That ATM is also broken.

I go into the bank and try to get cash out. They can’t they tell me… at least, that is what I think they told me in French.

I try to change my Ghanaian cedi, the woman at the counter laughs when I try to give it to her. I take it Ghanaian money isn’t worth much.

The security guard at the bank talks to my driver, I don’t understand what he says but the word Sheraton is in there somewhere. We ride off.

It is becoming a bit of a problem now. It is 5pm which means all the banks are closing and the sun is threatening to set. I have no useable money on me and I am racking up a bill with this poor driver I may not be able to pay. I’ve heard what happens to thieves in Africa… they get beaten to death, right there on the street by the victim and any well-meaning bystanders.

We get to the Sheraton. I walk into the reception begging my card to work, if it doesn’t I actually don’t know what my other options will be. It has to work. I have to get money.

There is an ATM in the Sheraton.

It doesn’t work.

I ask the receptionists there if they can take out cash for me. They say no. At least they speak English though. I ask them what my options are, what I can do. They shrug and say sorry and continue on with whatever it was they were doing before I rudely bombarded them.

I actually don’t know what to do now. The zemi driver is sitting outside the Sheraton not looking happy. I shrug my shoulders at him. I don’t have any suggestion and even if I did I wouldn’t know how to tell him in French.

I climb back on the bike and I don’t even need to tell him where to go. He takes me to another Bank Atlantique. I am not hopeful. But I beg, I plead with my angels to help me. I approach the ATM and actually stand there for a minute pleading with it to give me money. If it doesn’t work I really am fucked.

I put my card in and try.

It doesn’t work.

Fuck this I think. Fuck this what will I do? I am engulfed in the silence of the little ATM booth. I feel the weight of dread and I curse myself for getting into another one of these situations. For not being more prepared. For not getting a visa before I left home. For not carrying American dollars with me. For choosing to go alone to a random little West-African, French-speaking country called Benin.

I try the same ATM again, what else can I do?

It worked. It actually worked. It spat out cash and I am so elated I thought I would actually pee myself.

I run back to the driver, grinning ear to ear. He is grinning ear to ear as well.

I show him the crumpled piece of paper with a hotel recommended in Lonely Planet. I don’t have a booking of course, but they state that it is a large place so fingers crossed. I don’t care anyway, I have cash and that’s what I really need.

When we get to the hotel I ask the driver how much for the hour ride around the whole damn city.

3’000 CFA he tells me, looking so sheepish that I know he is ripping me off big time but I don’t care. A few minutes earlier I thought this man and any well-meaning bystander was going to beat me to death for not being able to pay, so paying a couple of extra CFA was not such a bad thing.