We were crossing the Guinea Bissau border looking for transportation. This meant more haggling; another argument. Nothing special, no exceptional treatment of any kind, all we wanted was to be treated as equals. Normally a bluff would work, because after all taxi drivers needed us as much as we needed them―or I could've been mistaken. I laid down the rules telling him I would pay 500CFA, not a cent more, not even 501CFA would I pay. Okay, okay you pay 1050CFA he said, nodding his head, it was at least double the fair price. In the heat of my haughty battle, I abruptly turned on my heals and headed down the dusty track in the direction of our destination, with the rest of my family in tow. Never mind my being the youngest of the six, I spoke for us all. Well, I never turned back nor did he. Any second now, any second, I thought, but he never came for us as they usually did. He was the only vehicle out there, our last chance.
Imagine a 45 degree, West African sun beating down on pinkish white flesh, not an inkling of shade. A Beware, Land Mines sign on my right, brushfire to my left―a 16km walk ahead, 16kg backpack weighing me down. Not even a trickle of sweat escaped my dehydration and I swelled like a pumpkin. A dollar, one measly dollar I grumbled under my breath.
Welcome to Guinea!
From now on, someone else take charge!