Shortly after the arrival of the New Year, I embarked on a pilgrimage of sorts, through the countries of Togo and Benin, Burkina Faso's neighbors to the south. The purpose of this journey was twofold: to attend the annual Voodoo Festival in Ouidah, a small city on the coast of Benin; and to undertake a substantial voyage on my own for the first time ever. Some handy background information on Voodoo: the Beninese government recognizes Voodoo (or Vodun, as some call it) as a legitimate religion, and over 60% of that nation's population are practitioners of the faith; Ouidah, once a major center in the colonial slave trade, played host to the various ethnic and religious groups who eventually combined their beliefs into one system—Voodoo—which was subsequently exported (along with its unfortunate founders) to places like Haiti and New Orleans. As such, Ouidah is held by many to be the international capital of the religion, a sort of Voodoo version of the Vatican.
On my way to the event, I passed through Togo, wanting to check out a country often overlooked by Burkina Faso's Peace Corps volunteers, passed over in favor of Ghana or Mali for their international explorations. I pause here in my tale to acknowledge the Peace Corps volunteers of Togo, whom I found to be genial, generous people. They helped me plan my route, included me in their outings, welcomed me into their homes... and are probably all going to Hell for their irreverent senses of humor. (I will see them there, naturally.) While in Lomé, Togo's capital, I decided to start my Voodoo education early, by visiting the famous fetish market on the outskirts of town. For the curious (and the perverted), allow me to explain the significance of a "fetish" here in West Africa: it is a magical charm, varying in size and shape, which may alternately protect its owner or harm others. The African spiritual tradition of Animism relies heavily on the belief in and use of these fetishes. I won't go much further into the details here, for while it is a subject that fascinates me, its secrets are notoriously well-guarded, and I do not wish to misrepresent it. I will add, however, that it is from this general tradition that the more organized practice of Voodoo evolved.
My visit to the fetish market marked my only real negative experience in Togo, and it was entirely my fault. Simply put, I acted like an American fresh off the airplane, and got taken big time by the savvy market sharks. The set-up there is an impressive sight: tables and urns overflowing with crocodile and monkey skulls, mummified snakes, antelope horns, beaks of dozens of bird species, elephant tusks—wait, did I say elephant tusks? I meant horse hooves, of course, because
everyone knows elephants are a protected endangered species. Anyway, there were enough exotic Voodoo ingredients present to fill a dozen safari snuff films. (And yes, there were also the requisite pincushion dolls, a must-have for every self-respecting bush sorcerer.) I arrived with the attention of buying nothing beyond a camera permit, and left with two Voodoo fetishes for which I'm pretty sure I paid at least five times the real price. It happened like this: my self-appointed guide took me to meet the market's
féticheur (the person who constructs the fetishes and communes with the spirit world—again,
not to be confused with "fetishist"), who demonstrated various items and detailed their significance. I was well aware that most of the lesson was tourist bullshit, my skepticism compounded by the fact that whenever he explained something, the gang of kids hanging out nearby would burst into laughter, obviously amused by the story he was making up on the spot. Then the
féticheur pointed out a few pieces that had been "made for" me, offering them, along with his blessing, for... well, for a lot of money. I didn't have that sum on me, but I didn't dare refuse him a slightly less exorbitant tribute. The bottom line is that I was wary of offending someone so deeply involved in Voodoo; I had been cursed in both Mali and Ghana (that trip as of yet unreported here), and I did
not want to be hexed again, particularly in such circumstances. (Also, in one of the nearby villages, several people had recently been murdered and decapitated, their heads supposedly taken for sinister ceremonies... and who knew in which market they may have ended up?) Out of the somewhat extortionary deal I received a cowry shell pouch to be worn around the neck (don't ask what's in it), and a diminutive figurine I was supposed to occasionally feed cigarettes and booze. I concluded the two of us would get along great, but over the course of my travels the little guy fell apart on me. Literally. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in fearing the power of this particular witch doctor.
And now, on to the main event! Ouidah was an easy bush taxi ride over the border, and was, as could be expected, ridiculously touristy. Everywhere you went you had to pay a fee, because it was "sacred". I'm almost surprised they didn't try to charge me for breathing the holy air. My host, a colonel in the Beninese army (a friend of a friend of a—you get the idea, yes?), arranged for me to stay in his opulent-yet-unfinished villa. My first night in town, I was the sole occupant, unless you count the compound's security guard. The Colonel, still absent, also commissioned a guide to show me around Ouidah. For some reason the guy, Franck, really grated on my nerves. He was attentive, but annoyingly so; he talked nonstop, and had an exasperating habit of demanding "You understand?" every three minutes (I didn't, because he mumbled and slurred his words together, but I lied and said I did in the hope that he would shut up); and he kept dragging me to tacky tourist spots where I had to fork over handfuls of cash. He brought me to Ouidah's sacred forest (entry fee, camera tax, guide charge...
but free air), in reality an enclosed grove home to dozens of plaster statues built to cater to visiting vacationers, and where I was expected to pay off a tree—it was really a transformed king, you understand. After I placed a grudging donation at the base of the royal roots, Franck did the same, but
then had the brass, hours later, to tell me to reimburse him. Our last couple hours together, he kept clumsily hinting about how "all" his American friends give him gifts; I bought him dinner, and he expected beer as well. I finally gave him 3000 West African francs to screw off, and managed to evade the dubious pleasure of his company for the rest of my stay, choosing instead to wander the streets of Ouidah in peaceful solitude.
Enter the Colonel. Upon meeting this man I was introduced to a side of African life I had not yet experienced... that of luxury. During the Festival, I lunched with my patron and his family at the mayor's house, just off the beach; we were then chauffeured, by soldiers in Land Rovers, to several Voodoo ceremonies around town, where we were always seated in the VIP section; and we still made it back to the Colonel's villa in time for champagne and escargot. Mind you, I don't eat snails, but in deference to my hosts I managed to choke a few down with the aid of generous chasings of seven-year-old French red wine.
As for the Voodoo Festival itself: it was flamboyant and colorful, but I couldn't help but feel that most of it was arranged for the benefit of foreigners like me, rather than being a genuine celebration of the religion. (This suspicion was validated a few days later in the city of Cotonou, during lunch with an expert on Voodoo, who better illuminated the subject for me.) All the same, the whirling dances of the revenants—performers gaudily dressed and masked as returned spirits—were enthralling. At times a dancer would break away in a swooping attempt to seemingly attack onlookers, but they were always held at bay by their guardians, serious young men who brandished long sticks at the capricious spirits. Documenting the events with photography was an exercise in frustration, as my friends would encourage me to take a picture, and then, just as I focused the shot, they would urgently hiss at me, "No, not
now!", causing me to nearly drop the camera in my effort not to offend the practitioners. I finally gave up my attempts altogether, realizing I stood more to enjoy and learn by simply watching, instead of stressing over creating the perfect digital photo album.
The day following the Festival, the Colonel himself drove us to Cotonou, Benin's largest city (and capital in all but name), where I cooled my heels for a few days in the swank apartment of an American expatriate (friend of a friend of a...) while waiting for my onward travel visa to clear. An enforced period of calm, to be sure, but a much-needed one after over a week of frenetic movement. I made the most of my being grounded, visiting neighboring villages, sampling palm wine, meeting with the afore-mentioned Voodoo expert, and enjoying the incomparable cooking of my American friend's full-time chef. Then it was onto an overnight bus up to the border of Burkina, some more visa stampings, and a jump off as my ride passed the great eastern Burkinabé city of Fada N'Gourma. I had observed the famed Voodoo Festival, lounged in the seductive embrace of privilege, and met dozens of intriguing characters... all without a traveling companion holding my hand through the process (or angrily threatening to abandon me in the middle of nowhere). Just yours truly, in a deft demonstration of determinedly dauntless, day-to-day dabbling. Walla-walla, bing... bang.
