Bonne Anniversaire a Moi!

Lea* was late getting a bush taxi out of Centrale. I usually wouldn’t mind—it was still the morning, either way—but today was my birthday, and a serious lack of funds after a recent trip to Lome had me stuck in Sodo with few people I could kick back with.

I called Lea to check in.
“So there’s been an unforeseen problem”, she said, “The Muslim drivers are having issues bringing the pig.”

I was upset for not having thought of that problem the day before, when Lea told me I’d finally be getting a little piglet to call my own. The Muslim Kotikoli ethnic group has a corner on the taxi brousse business, which is nice most times (travelling Christmas or Easter is just as easy) but not so good when transporting swine.

Eventually she flagged down a mini bus that was fine with loading the pig (secure in a wicker basket cage) atop the mass of luggage, market goods, and animals that hung on awkward. She and the pig were on their way to Atakpame, halfway to my village.
Atakpame proves difficult for travellers in its own ways, though, and that’s speaking nothing of travellers with 30 pound travelling companions who are locked up and looking to break out. A tumultuous intersection is a must stop for cars travelling north and south along the main route nationale, where they meet with throngs of moto taxis and food vendors. The latter mob all the windows and doors of taxis pulling in, pushing bananas, oranges, bread and cold water pouches into your face, while the former abruptly grab the bags of exiting passengers in a hope they’ll get their business.

As the zemi-johns (moto-taxi drivers) swooped in one immediately grabbed the little pig from the driver’s apprentice who unloaded the mess of baggage off the top of the mini bus. On asking how much the trip to the next taxi station would run her the driver abruptly demanded $2 for the 1-2 km trip into the city. To someone stateside $2 is basically nothing, but here that same amount could buy you food on the street for a day or two if you wanted it to. Lea grabbed the pig from the zemi-john and began to walk away in a show of defiance against such unfair price gauging, but the driver was insistent that he earned her business and wouldn’t be told off easily. He slowly drove the motorcycle next to her along the road as she searched for a new zemi-john, proclaiming all the while that she was, in fact, not a nice person.
She found a new driver who offered to take her but insisted that he not have to touch the little pig—it would have to go on her lap. He asked where she was travelling to and she said Sodo, about 50km to the southwest.

“Are you visiting Jonathan”, he asked.

“Yes”, she said, a little taken aback that I’m apparently that well known.

“Jonathan and I are friends”, the man said (we aren’t, as it turns out), “I’ll take you there after you’re done with your shopping.”

****

I was thinking about taking a mid-morning nap when I called Lea to check in. Might as well pamper yourself with a little shameless relaxation on your birthday, I thought.

It had already been a pretty eventful morning at the fish ponds, and I was tuckered out after chasing my birthday feast all around the rice paddies.

I had picked out Marshall for the chopping block some time before, having rationalized that it was his own fault for losing his spot as alpha duck. He was still a sprightly drake, though, and wasn’t too keen on making his exit from this world.

On arrival, it was pretty easy to spot the three drakes rummaging about in the paddies. The bright red skin flaps on their faces provide a striking contrast from the fresh green, earthly brown and soft gold that make up the palette of colors of maturing rice. Marshall was flanked on either side by the two Georges—two males I’ve never been able to tell apart. All three marched in unison down the length of a roadside paddy, filtering through the deep mud for breakfast, until one, and then all, snapped their necks back and stared me down.

Unlike the innocent, little black eyes of a long island duck (the standard, domesticated duck from the Aflac commercials), the type of duck that was brought to Togo possesses eyes that are giant, cat-like and downright sinister. Every time I go to feed them those eyes, filled with resentment, pierce through me silently.
On my birthday, though, I was set to show them just who the real alpha duck is.

The Chase:
The ducks were a deceptive 10 feet away from us feeding in the muck when I decided to make my move. Ahossou, my work counterpart, told me not to go in after them but I did anyway, thinking that my boots would protect me; they did not, and I was soon up to my knees in inescapable mud. Ahossou held out a stick to help me make it back the few feet I had moved.

The ducks waddled away slowly, over a partition and deeper into the rice. On chasing after them they stood out obviously as their plump bodies broke through the bottom of the rice, shaking the golden grains hanging off the top as they passed. Ahossou took off his sandals and pushed them up a small creek that runs down the plateau, and into the thick brush in between the rice and the ponds.

I headed towards the ponds, knowing they would soon seek the shelter of the water. Once there, like a walrus against a polar bear, the ducks have the advantage. Many a time I’ve splashed water futilely from the shore in an effort to get them back into their cages, only succeeding in getting myself wet.

As predicted, one of the George’s made a break for the water, quickly followed by Marshall, who I lunged at in vain. The second George made it passed me as well and soon all three were holed up in the middle of the pond. Ahossou rolled up his pant legs and went in after them, as did I. The ducks waded nervously as we pushed them to the shore.

“Allez!” Ahossou yelled, as I jumped out of the water clumsily and began to run towards the retreating group. Yet it was all for naught, as Marshall soon scampered into the safety of the other pond. I went into the water and made my presence known by splashing at the water with a palm frond. Ahossou copied me and the ducks soon split apart, leaving Marshall out alone. We headed towards him and once again chased him up and out of the water, this time with seemingly nowhere to run. Yet, somehow, he found a way to escape through the tall, jagged grass that separates the pond form the road. I foolishly went after him, and in doing so scraped every uncovered part of my body. I had him within my sights at first, but soon I lost him amongst the fluorescent green grass that rose above my head.

Emerging on the other side I found no sign of Marshall, only more rice. Inspecting the landscape, though, and thinking like a duck on the run, I honed in on his hiding place. Crouching in another creek and looking into the darkness of the large drainage pipe that stretched under the road I spotted the silhouette of Marshall. Ahossou, with a large stick in hand, soon made his way to the opposite end of the pipe, as I climbed out of the creek and onto the road. Ahossou hit the stick against the pipe and scared Marshall enough to push him out of his safety and into the light. As he emerged from the pipe on my side of the road I jumped down into the creek, giving him a shock as I landed right behind him and nearly completing the mission at hand. Yet, again, he evaded capture and found another path into the pond.

Marshall joined one of the Georges in the pond as Ahossou and I ran up to them, upset that this was taking us so long. Ahossou clearly was more upset than I, both at himself and possibly at me for botching that last grab. He silently approached the two ducks from behind, all the while carrying a 15 foot long bamboo pole he had found.

As I slapped at the water in my usual style Ahossou yelled out to me, asking which duck I fancied for the meal. “The white one”, I yelled back, and with one steady motion Ahossou lifted the bamboo far into the air and brought it down upon Marshall’s head. We pulled him out of the water and rested along the edge of the pond.

Ahossou smiled in the bright morning sunlight; “good thing I was on form today”, he quipped.

Behind him the two George’s preened their feathers calmly. They never liked Marshall much anyway.



*Names may have been changed for privacy