Assignment #2 - Interview a Classmate, Write Their Story

I ride the city bus to and from work each day and am invariably jostled about, stepped on, even groped. I’m familiar with the halitosis of the man intent on invading my personal space, the fragrance of dozens of arms raised to hold onto the handles when it’s standing room only, and the feeling that my bones could be crushed any moment by the woman elbowing her way to the door. I try to keep things in perspective and find something to laugh about. And I remember it could be worse. Much worse.

I was nineteen years old when I left my home in Oregon for Benin, West Africa to work with a missions organization teaching basic health practices. I had seen the National Geographic pictures of lions mid-pounce, of zebras lapping cool water at a still pond, and of giraffes stretching their necks into an impossibly clear, blue sky. I thought Africa would be rather peaceful. But what National Geographic didn’t prepare me for was the hectic reality of daily life away from the wildlife reserve.

One weekend, my friends, Chris and Danielle, and I decided we would travel a few hours northwest from Benin to Burkina Faso, both located nearly at the equator. We packed our backpacks and hailed a cab at the side of the busy, dusty road. The taxi that stopped for us would have been rejected from any self-respecting demolition derby. It may have been white at one time, but it was too rusted and dirt covered to know for sure. The car’s body was shaped like a tick, short and thin at the front with a wide belly and a tapered end – their version of a station wagon, intended to seat maybe six people.

Chris, speaking his own version of French, negotiated our fare with the driver, even paying more than usual so that we could enjoy the unheard of luxury as sole occupants of the vehicle. The driver chucked our packs into the trunk. I watched, disgusted, as they settled into the inch-thick layer of oil rolling around and knew they would be thoroughly marinated once we arrived.

Now, I had thought that the outside of the car was bad. The inside was even worse: there were no floors – only two rows of seats and a hole where my feet should have rested – but a metal bar down the middle of the car held the front and back together, the windows were permanently open, and the barely closed doors gave little sense of security.

We sat in the car with the two other passengers (something must have been lost in the translation earlier), basting, in the one hundred twenty-six degree heat while the driver attempted to start the car. I watched as he fished around in the front seat until he found two wires and then I lost sight of him after he disappeared under the hood of the car. Suddenly, the car sputtered to life. He had hotwired his own vehicle! I wasn’t surprised. “What next?,” I thought.

Finally, we were on our way. Watching the ground speed below hypnotized me while I inhaled the orange dust that flew into the car. I didn’t realize we had made another stop for more passengers until I was jammed against the door, holding a baby the size of a Chihuahua puppy in my hand, and squished next to a lanky African woman. Nine people squeezed into the backseats intended to hold only five and a tenth climbed onto the roof. I waited until the tossing of elbows and accidental clunking of heads subsided, but no one claimed the baby; it simply dozed in my hand. I couldn’t imagine how it slept through the constant jolts and bumps and feared it might have been dead. Still, I made sure I held onto the infant as best as I could, keeping it from flying out the window or falling through the non-existent floor.

Right after I managed to balance myself – one foot on the metal rod that kept the car together and the other foot tucked under me – the woman to my right reached toward me. I watched as her hand seemed to move centimeters a second. Closer, closer, reaching for me until she was touching my breast. My eyes opened wide. What was she doing? She didn’t stop there, either. She wrapped her fingers around my breast until she held it entirely in her hand! As if that wasn’t enough, she pulled on it, pointing it toward the still sleeping baby in my hand.

There was nothing I could do. If I moved to the left to escape her grip, I would lean against the door and risk falling out. If I scooted forward, I could fall onto the road under the car. “Get off me, woman,” I thought, and resigned to her attempt at milking me like a cow. The woman let go of me once she realized I wasn’t about to nurse the baby, but still did not offer to take the child, whom I presumed was hers. Later, I discovered that the people thought their babies would live forever if suckled by a white woman.

When we finally arrived at the border, I thought the adventure might be over. Nope. There was just one little problem when I tried to show my passport to the border guards: no one would hold the baby so that I could get my passport from my back pocket. While I was deciding what to do, I felt a warm liquid trickle down my arm.

“Great, the baby peed on me,” I thought. “Babies are so gross.”

After several hours of being blended in the taxi, we stepped out, orange from the dust, bodies feeling like Jell-O, and laughing.

“Did you see when she grabbed me?” I said to Danielle.
“Yeah, you had the funniest look on your face. I could’ve sworn you would’ve hit her if that baby wasn’t in your hands!”
We laughed about it some more and tried to wipe the dirt off each others’ faces.
“Do you guys smell that?” Chris asked, sniffing the air.
“What?” I asked.
“Dunno, smells like someone peed their pants or something.”

I looked at my leg and saw the darker splotches of mud where the baby’s urine had run off my arm, onto my pants.

By that point, there wasn’t anything else to do but laugh…and hope for a hotel with running water where I could wash my clothes.