Bags and Bribes: Bienvenue au Benin

Saturday 29th January, 10:45pm.

The Air Brussels flight comes cruising into Cotonou, Benin, and I look out the window to... darkness.

Now I'm not trying to have a Joseph Conrad moment here, but it was a genuinely impressive sight to see just how little ambient light comes up from the country or indeed the capital - you can pick out individual flickers here and there, some white (halogens) but mostly yellow (sodium and quite a few fires).

My time in Benin kicks off pretty promisingly - off the plane early and cruise through customs with barely a look and a "bang" as the stamp comes down on the passport. No questions asked.

I'm through to baggage claim and in for a rude awakening...

Cotonou Airport, Benin. 11:15pm.

The first bag arrives, one of the first – great. I watch the numbers dwindle around me as the bag feed slows and eventually stops, the three of us left look at each other with a mixture of puzzlement and worry.

I look next to my boarding pass stub - my bag tags had been taken off me at the transit stop in Brussels. The worry deepens.

 I haul my single bag then through to the baggage claim man. On the way, the scrupulous baggage checkers see an opportunity as I can't verify it belongs to me. "Don't worry about it sir, that's fine. Enjoy your stay".
Well that's nice at least.
As I turn away a hand grasps my elbow, “You have been to Cotonou? You know how it works here? Something for a little Coca-Cola?”. This turns out to be the first of many “donations” tonight…

“No tag, no bag”, granted maybe a poetic translation but reflects the initial response from the man sitting comfortably in his air conditioned office (it’s around this time I realise I’m still wearing a cashmere jumper and the real heat overload starts).
After some pretty insistent pleading, and what I thought was placating type into a DOS programme on his part, he turns with a triumphant smile on his face, “Je l’ai trouve!”.
$5 to the man.
Bag in Brussels.
Next flight in three days.
"Come back then".
Who needs trousers anyway.

I emerge from baggage claim. I'll sort it later from the hotel, i think to myself. I look around at the drivers assembled.
Hotel Ibis - No.
Hotel L'Entente - No.
Hotel Mirage - No.
No driver.
Damn.
I look to my phone - no number for the hotel. 6% battery, no access to internet.
I'll do it the old fashioned way.

My loose dollars are spent (I realise I should have more, and local currency would help too…) so my next stop is the bureau de change. I know it’s not strictly a bribe, but late night exchange rates tend to include a sort of special commission; “ah, $20 notes? The rate is less then…”
Damn.
Note to self: bring $100 notes.

 Next up, the security guard at the exit of the airport. I know better than to ask for his help but it’s late and I’m reaching boiling point.  “Yes I find a taxi. Where you going? I don’t know it. What neighbourhood? I don’t know it. This is my friend, he drives.”
I look down to my available cash.
No loose change from the teller at the bureau.
I hand him lowest value note I have.
Damn.
Note to self: never convert that value to Sterling.

I get into the taxi. A nagging feeling arises - something that I should have remembered - one of the sacred rules of travelling.
Oh yes, there it is; Always Negotiate First.
Damn. Damn.
“8,000CFA,” sixteen dollars. Although I don’t know where we’re going, I’m sure that’s a rip off but there’s surprisingly little bargaining power as we start driving away.
Damn. Damn. Damn.

And as we drive I get a chance to take a deep breath and gather my wits; I’ve just asked a “security man” to ask his “friend” to drive me somewhere where he “knows the area” – although clearly not the guesthouse. I realise I'm a white guy, alone, in a completely unknown west African city, with a valuable hoard of electronics in the back of the taxi, and no phone numbers to call.
Damn Damn Damn.

For a couple of minutes we drive up a main boulevard.
Streetlights - check
People - not so much
It's hot. Unvelievably hot.
I'm tired. It's now 12:30am.
My nerves start to play tricks on me.

We pull off the main boulevard into a dirt road immersed in only darkness.
Another piece of common travel advice - at night, no lights equals no go.
Damn Damn Damn.

At this stage the worst horror stories of tourist in Africa start manifesting themselves in my mind.
"Attendez ici".
I'm alone. A couple of shadowy figures emerge out of the darkness, congregating on the taxi.
damn damn damn damn damn damn.

And as quickly as my panic started 15 minutes earlier, it's dashed with typical African joviality. The driver returns - still no hotel, but starts bantering with the others - it's clear to me this is all honest.
Oh.
I was being silly.
RELIEF.

With 4% battery left I go to the ultimate, ever-helpful last point of call.
"Mum"
"How are you! Tell me all about it!"
3%
"Not really the time - Help"

And with seconds to spare before my iPhone dies before me, I've got it. A number. We call. We're there. As in it's literally right behind us.

The hotel boy comes out to greet me.

"Bienvenue au Benin monsieur!".