Riding a taxi in Guinea is like playing rugby.

We are a team of 20 plus 5 up top.

The ride is jarring and bruising as my head bangs against the hard metal, my knees knocking into the seat's protruding nails.

Our bottom bottoms out in all of the ravines called potholes.

We slow to a stop and the front seat goes up, blowing off steam from the boiling radiator.

We chug with the thoughts, "I think I can. I think I can," up the hills.

A bag of oranges fly through the window (surprise) into my lap as a foot jumps up on the windowsill catching a ride in our moving vehicle.

It is a physical ride.

Covered head to toe with red dust, it is a dirty ride.

It is a ride of endurance, 5 hours of being in a tight scrum.

Yet we made it, and now I can shower, rub the soreness out of my muscles, and fall exhausted to sleep.