FIrst Trip

The bush taxi bus that takes us between Bafoussam and Mayo Darle is run by an agency called Alliance. We were told to use caution around the perimeters of any agence, because that is where men like to lurk, ready to pull you into their own – fake – “taxis” and subsequently steal all your stuff or at least pickpocket you. The agence, however, is like base in a game of tag. They’re liable – sort of – they’re official, and you can walk away from your luggage as it waits next to the van to be loaded without worry, as long as you keep your most valuable valuables on you.
So in the hours we waited for the bush taxi to depart, Dada-Nomi and I cautiously, probingly, explored the perimeter of Alliance’s lot and eventually made it to a fruit stand where I was given absolutely non of the most delicious looking pineapple I’d ever seen.. I watched the man peel it, cut three big juicy long slices, package them in a small clear plastic bag, and sell them to Dada Nomi for 100cfa – about 20 cents. We encountered no ruffians or pickpockets.
The bush taxi is like an extremely large van, with cushioned metal benches, designed to hold probably 18 passengers. One of the seats in each row has a small, foldable back so people can climb through to the rows behind, though this seat is in a different position in each row. After 25 people had piled in, we took off.
I started feeling woozy after about five minutes on the road. I started drooling after about 10. Foaming after about 15. And puking at 20. Dada-nomi’s scarf, my drool rag, was the first thing to go.. soaked through and useless after about an hour.. followed by five plastic puke bags, three Peace Corps Newsletters, Dada-Nomi’s body and clothes, and an entire small packet of tissues. I was really annoyed too because every time I tried to get comfortable by resting my head on the person next to me, Dada-Nomi would block my way. It got worse after the first hour, when we started bumping around, driving slow, skirting road-wide pot-holes, bouncing to and fro. The road was no longer paved. After about two-thirds of the way through the trip – ie, six and a half hours in – I sort of just emptied out and gave in. I thought if I just sort of passed out, I’d wake up and it’d be over. The man next to us was insisting that he wanted to go to America. When Dada-Nomi was trying to shove water down my throat.. trying to pry open my unwilling jaw, soaking herself and me. She lifted my paw; I let it fall. I was miserable.. couldn’t she tell?? She lifted my tail; I let it fall. Then, interrupting the man, she panicked to no one in particular, “I think my dog is dead. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” I was not dead.
Well we finally arrived in Mayo Darle around 11:30 pm. The town was sleeping. Sandrine helped us get all the bags on motos, and we ourselves moto-ed to Aislynn’s house, our postmate, who was not home. I was feeling immediately better, though Dada-Nomi still seemed damp and anxious. Kaitlyn, a volunteer from Banyo, came out from the house with a lantern. We paid the moto-boys, were ushered inside and I, went promptly to sleep. We had finally arrived in our new home.