In the shade of a rather large tree, a fat mamma lay on a straw mat with her big, black breasts almost smothering the face of her runny-nosed child. Two girls played at being hairdressers, an older brother listened to his favourite cassette, but there was no sign of the Cotonou car.

The border-taxi left us to wait. We waited..... And waited.

I began to curse my naivety as the long minutes dragged on towards half an hour. The people in the encampment could not even speak French: Mamma had about as much energy as a beached whale; did she ever move? Porto Novo began to cry; perhaps the Cotonou driver had robbed us. My mind was running wild, so I walked over to comfort Porto Novo.

Beside her, all our bags were safely covered with a blanket! Apparently, Cotonou had tried to carry some locals across the border and was forced to pay a bond at the bridge. He had emptied the car of its load so that he could claim his money back.

Porto Novo sighed a 'Grace a Dieu' when our car appeared, and we loaded up again.

There may not be a lot of traffic between towns but the cars that do travel the considerable distances tend to be pushed to the limit. Overloaded, and travelling too fast, the braking required to avoid entering the rear of struggling lorries continually awakens the dozing passengers. The driver's concentration is paramount, and it seems that only loud music keeps him alert and charged. I was squeezed in the front seat, next to the exporter.... who took it upon himself to constantly remind the driver to ease off the accelerator, if we were to avoid certain calamity. It nearly happened twice.