|
In one village:
The front car of the three-vehicle
convoy
(we were travelling at the rear) annihilated
a chicken,
and showered the roadside with feathers.
Soon after, the middle
car was forced to brake suddenly as another car pulled out in front of it. Our driver
instinctively steered his car to the right to avoid an oncoming vehicle, and into a dry
corn field. He then had to fight frantically to bring the car back onto the tarmac.
As dusk approached, a
large black boar decided to cross the road and, excuse the pun, had his bacon.
Our gleaming blue Peugeot now sported a battered wing, and carcass remains streaked down
the length of the passenger side. The knock caused a slow puncture, and loosened the
light-fitting.
| From
Parakou, the driver stopped frequently to look under the bonnet, or play with the
electrics behind the steering column. , and
had become veperamental.
Then he changed the deflated tyre,
beside a kerosene lamp, with a worn out excuse for a spare.
Within an hour, another row of tilly lamps
flickered at us through the darkness.
While the driver had his puncture fixed, I
joined one of the passengers for a glass of Milo and half a baguette with
mayonnaise.
Three long tables were
set up outside neighbouring houses to cater for the wrong-side-of-midnight traffic.
|
|
