Rush hour in Porto Novo

The important part about biking in Porto Novo is that you don’t die during all those moments in which you are positive you are going to die. Every morning except Sunday. I leave my house at 7:30 and ride for 20 minutes down a one dirt road, three turns on three paved roads and a final right turn onto another dirt road.

At college, on my commute to class, I used to see other middle class white students, professors carrying briefcases and neighbors walking their dogs. Now, I pass the woman on the corner who sells oranges every day, motorcycle taxi drivers honking at prospective pedestrian clients and children who run alongside me until their parents call after them. There is also the occasional goat and the van carrying way more people than there are seat belts.

It took me a while to become used to the nearly constant sound of horns – the language of the motorcycle drivers in Benin. A short honk is a warning that someone is passing. Longer is a taxi driver asking if you need a ride. More than two and it’s “What the hell are you doing Yovo? You just completely cut me off.”

By the time I arrive at class, sweat has collected on the back of my neck, and I’m realizing that the shower I took this morning was completely useless. After I dismount, I wipe my face with my handkerchief and lock my bike to the bike nearest to it. I know it belongs to a fellow volunteer. We’re the only ones crazy enough to try to bike in this traffic