We relax after a tortuous night of driving.

Brian and I popped downtown to change more money for our trip to Benin. We also wanted to get African straw hats, essential in this weather.
    The stall opposite the bank had hats but the brims were too big. Someone ran off to get more hats. These had brims too narrow! They looked like Bing Crosby hats made of straw. A young fellow offered to guide us to more hats. When he learned we were from Chicago, his face beamed. In English he said, "Sheecahgoh? Ah, Michael Jordan. Numbah twenty-three!"
    Before we knew it, our old friend Barboza showed up. He said he'd help us find just what we wanted. He hustled us over to his sister Dado's shop for a little look, a little see. On the way, Brian bought hats from a hat man who was wearing about 8 straw hats stacked on his head. At Dado's shop, I bought a pagne of indigo tie-died cloth. One of the fellows there told me it was CFA 12,000. I said that was ridiculous. The man almost burst a vein trying to convince me that this was handmade and not like the commercial stuff from Europe. After much back and forth, we settled on 5,500. Charlie later told me the average price is 3,500.
    I joked with Brian: "The next time we see Barboza, we run the other way!"

Benin Bound
Mid-afternoon, the four of us packed the Toyota Tercel and drove east to the Benin border. Our destination: Ouidah, Benin. From 1800 to 1850, when Ouidah was Benin's only port, slaves were shipped to America, Brazil, and Haiti.
    As we drove towards the border, I noted that our car was never stopped by the soldiers conducting random car searches. James simply slowed the car to a walking pace, smiled, made eye-contact, and sang out "Bonjour!" There are benefits to DWW (Driving While White) everywhere — not just in the U.S.
    The border crossing wasn't so painful. It only took about 40 minutes. Stamps, forms, signatures, a smile here and there. Once we crossed through the border, the new road was gloriously smooth, rivaling the best roads in the United States. Brian took over driving and we arrived in Ouidah at dusk.
    The roads turned trecherous; everything was torn up for a new paving project. We needed to find our hotel, Mon Pied Ton Pied (My Foot Your Foot). A fellow on a street corner joined us in the car and directed us all the way to la Rue des Esclaves (the Road of Slaves). James thanked our guide with money for a moped ride back to town. After our guide jumped out, we continued down la Rue des Esclaves. Night had fallen. As we crept down the road, we could make out enormous painted fetishes or sculptures along the road's edge. A giant monkey. A muscular female soldier. . .
    We saw a couple of men walking down the road with flashlights. They assured us we were going the right direction.
    We turned right and drove west down the road with not just potholes but hell-holes. This was the 8 km of "awful road" the Copes' friends had warned us about. Mon Pied Ton Pied was a new hotel by a reputedly beautiful stretch of beach, thus worth the hassle.
    Brian brilliantly maneuvered the Tercel in 4-wheel drive as it crawled, bumped, and spun through 20 minutes of the worst roads I'd ever seen.
    We finally arrived an unmarked building with electrical lights. A man sitting by the road (we only saw his teeth in the light) confirmed we were in the right place!
    The French proprietress came out ot greet us. The hour was late and we were the only guests. She was friendly and quickly served us a delicous light meal.
    The hotel consisted of the main eating area with little sleeping huts dotting the beach. The huts were cute round cement buildings divided into two separate quarters, each with a shower and toilet. Like most bathrooms we'd seen, this shower was cold water only and without a curtain.
    When the Copes asked for fresher bedding to replace the gritty sheets already on the bed, the proprietress was a bit indignant and refused to help them! At least we had mosquito netting. •